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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Met by Chance
Copyright © 2008 by Lynne Connolly
ISBN: 1-59998-892-5
Edited by Angela James
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
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electronic publication: February 2008
Met By Chance
Lynne Connolly
Dedication
To the Duchess, who deserves another book. I raise my glass to you.
Met By Chance
Chapter One
“Are you perfectly sure you’re all right, Lady Perdita?”
Perdita forced a smile, looking at the handsome man gazing down at her. “Thank
you, yes, sir. I’m hardly out of breath.”
Lord Munshin’s smile carried a faintly patronising air. “Then allow me to fetch you a
glass of wine.”
At least he hadn’t offered her lemonade. Perdita sighed, watching the retreating back
of her escort. She was tiring of his constant care. She wasn’t made of glass.
The ballroom contained many of the people she knew, and few she didn’t. Society
had changed little in the two years she’d been away. She was now recovered from the
riding accident that broke both her legs and forced her to retreat from sympathetic
responses and pitying looks. Shimmering silks and glittering jewels hid hearts empty of
all but material concerns, and when they welcomed her back, most of the welcome was
for her generous dowry.
Even then they wouldn’t have accepted her without her lineage. She was one of their
own, forced to retire temporarily and now she was back. Society re-assimilated her like a
stream flowing around a rock and then continued on its way.
Lord Munshin was kind, but after a season’s courting from him, Perdita knew he
wanted a wife to dominate. Her accident gave her a vulnerability that appealed to him,
but domination by a loving husband was the last thing she wanted.
A crisp voice broke into her thoughts. “If you’re tiring of Lord Munshin’s careful
concern you might like to look about you. I have someone in mind.”
Perdita smiled ruefully at her mother. “At first Munshin’s care was pleasant, but I’m
finding it tedious now. I’m not an invalid any more, Mama, and I won’t be treated like
one. His own mother isn’t allowed to move without her muff, fan, hat and a warm
shawl.” Perdita lifted her hand and let it drop softly back into the ivory silk of her gown
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before it could complete the gesture of exasperation others might see and correctly
interpret. A lady should not make a fist in public. “Who is this new man?”
“The Marquess of Petherbridge.”
Perdita had heard of the marquess, but not met him. “I thought he was settled abroad
at his late wife’s home.”
“He’s back from France and his aunt tells me he intends to remain here.” Lady
Taversall had long experience of keeping a polite society face, but Perdita saw the gleam
of interest in her mother’s eyes.
She recalled all the stories associated with the wealthy marquess. How much he had
adored his wife, despite the disparity in their ages. How her death left him devastated.
Perdita didn’t want to compete with such devotion. She’d rather Lord Munshin fuss over
her. “Aren’t you grasping at straws, Mama? He won’t want me. He still needs an heir and
I’m too old for him.”
“How can you know that? He wants a mother for his little girl. He’s hunting for a
bride, Perdita, and he doesn’t want a young debutante.”
“So at seven and twenty, I’m old enough to be another child’s mother, am I?” Perdita
knew her tone was dry. She felt dry. Dried up. She was even thin enough to be dried, and
soon she would shrivel up altogether. Yes, being a stepmother would suit her mood, but
the role still didn’t appeal to her.
“Just meet him and talk to him. You know I won’t pressure you.” Not directly, but
her mother knew as well as she did that Perdita was nearing the end of her eligibility as a
bride. At seven and twenty society would consider her firmly on the shelf, were it not for
her generous dowry.
Perdita watched Lord Munshin cross the ballroom to her and felt no anticipatory
spark, no pleasure at his return, only apprehension that he would continue to treat her like
a china figurine. Her heart sank. With a perfunctory smile of thanks, she accepted the
chilled wine he brought her.
He hovered over her like a mother hen over a chick. “You are not too tired?”
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“Not at all, sir. It’s barely eleven o’clock and I don’t expect to reach my bed much
before dawn.” She glanced up at him through her lashes.
He didn’t respond to the flirtatious gesture, but frowned at her in concern. His sturdy
wholesomeness, which she’d once thought an asset, now struck her as a definite demerit.
He wore sturdy clothes meant to last. His square face and plain wig all recalled his sturdy
and essentially boring nature.
Where were all the good flirts these days? Perdita couldn’t recall a season that had
held such lack of promise. Or perhaps she was jaded, and everyone was the same except
for her. Maybe her absence from society gave her a distance from it, one that gave her a
clearer picture.
A stir at the other end of the room made her look up. People moved aside, silks and
brocades swirling in a kaleidoscope of movement.
“Now that,” came her mother’s low voice, “is what I call an entrance.”
Rarely had Perdita seen anything so fabulous. A rara avis, a man so beautiful it was
only by the male attire she could be sure of his sex. And even then she wasn’t positive.
The newcomer wore a pale rose coat and breeches, with a delicate embroidered ivory
waistcoat underneath. His natural hair, if he had any, was covered with an elaborate wig,
the bulk of the confection drawn into a queue behind, with careful formal curls adorning
his temples. Many men dressed well, but few with such panache and style. The clothes
fitted him perfectly, delineating a tall figure with excellent legs and broad shoulders, but
Perdita wasn’t sure what was natural and what was padding. At least his height was his
own, the fashionable red high heels only adding a few inches to it.
Perdita gasped when she saw his face. He wore a full maquillage in the French style,
rarely seen on a man in London’s ballrooms but usual in Versailles. Thick white ceruse
covered his skin, and a delicate pink blush enhanced his cheekbones. One tiny patch close
to the left corner of the rouged lips stood out against the matte starkness around it.
A French exquisite. Perdita stared, fascinated by the effect. Drawn to wonder what
was underneath. Perhaps that was why he did it, or perhaps he was used to the style.
Certainly he wore his extravagant attire with a natural air.
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Bowing over his hostess’s hand and saying something that made her laugh, he
seemed unaware of the sensation he caused. Or perhaps nervousness caused the high-
pitched titter heard over the relative hush that had fallen at his entrance.
Chatter resumed and the ballroom slowly returned to normal. The four-piece
orchestra struck up the opening bars of a country-dance, and people began to take their
places for it.
“Well my dear,” came her mother’s voice. “There he is.”
“Popinjay!” Lord Munshin remarked, not bothering to conceal his contempt.
Perdita found her voice and made an effort to say something. “That is Lord
Petherbridge?” She wasn’t yet sure what to think. A man who looked like that wasn’t her
ideal of a perfect companion and lover. How could her mother imagine she would be
attracted to such a man-milliner?
No one answered her. The man’s head turned fractionally, as if he heard her. Green
eyes met her gaze in an unnervingly direct stare.
Everything stood still. Someone real lived under that unnatural mask; someone
Perdita felt connected to.
She gave herself a mental shake. No, not this time. She would not allow him to carry
her romantic soul away before she knew more. It was foolish. The man was a dandy, a
popinjay, a macaroni. Nothing to attract her at all.
So why was she attracted?
The tide surged back when she broke the contact, people talking, laughing, dancing.
Foolish! Munshin was right, the man was a popinjay. Nothing more.
Dismissing him from her thoughts, Perdita accepted the support of Lord Munshin’s
arm, then circulated around the room to talk to her friends before going into supper. She
knew better than to expect to dance again. His lordship took too great a care of her for
that.
Perdita knew the helplessness of being an invalid, but her accident had been two
years ago, and apart from the occasional inconvenience, she felt fully recovered. She had
broken her legs. She had recovered. Munshin’s constant reminders irked her and were the
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main reason she would reject his lordship’s offer when he finally got around to making it.
He’d care for her until he drove her screaming mad.
Intent on answering his lordship’s solicitous queries about her health without gritting
her teeth, Perdita didn’t notice the approach of the marquess until she heard his voice,
one unfamiliar to her, but mellifluous and musically pleasant. Since he was talking to
Lady Fulham, leaning over her in a way that spoke of intimacy, Perdita had leisure to
examine him before he turned his attention to her.
Close up he was as astounding as at a distance, a sophisticated bird of paradise.
Nothing was out of place, not a stain or a crease on his expensively cut coat. His pink
coat.
Perdita was surprised when she heard him speak in an immaculate English accent.
She’d assumed he was completely French, since the marquess had spent all his adult life
there. Foolish of her. He’d been brought up here, so of course his English would be good.
“You want a pet monkey, Lady Fulham? If you are truly sincere I daresay I could
rustle up a monkey or two to satisfy your curiosity.” A pause. “We might try Walpole. I
hear he is fond of them.”
A shocked silence, then laughter. Horace Walpole was small, wizened and eccentric,
with a rapier-sharp wit, more monkey than man, or so Lady Mary Wortley Montagu said.
Few chose to pit themselves against Walpole. It appeared that Petherbridge cared little for
that.
Perdita made to pass the small group, tugging on Lord Munshin’s arm, but
disconcertingly the man turned and confronted her. His gaze, the most alive thing about
his face, captured hers, as he had when he came in. Dropping his lids, he swept her a low,
elaborate bow. Perdita stood perfectly still, waiting for the introduction, foolishly
flattered by such instant attention.
Lord Munshin made the introduction. “Lady Perdita Garland, may I present the
Marquess of Petherbridge. Petherbridge, this is Lady Perdita Garland, the eldest daughter
of Lady Taversall and the late Earl of Blyth.”
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Perdita sank into a curtsey, and allowed him to take her hand to breathe a kiss just
above the skin. It was the approved manner, but performed in such an intimate way it
made the back of her hand tingle.
Her instant response to the sensual touch came as a surprise. The next surprise was
the warmth of his smile, and the way he made it just for her. “Walk with me, my lady?”
he suggested, retaining her hand to lay it on his arm.
The silk of his coat chilled her fingers. With an apologetic glance at Lord Munshin,
who was unable to do anything to counter the marquess’s stratagem, Perdita allowed his
lordship to lead her away. He moved surprisingly swiftly, but she didn’t feel hurried. She
had plenty of time to nod to her acquaintances. Just not to linger and converse with them.
Charles was shaken by his first sight of Lady Perdita, and shaken by his instinctive
response to the woman his aunt had chosen as a suitable candidate for his hand. She’d
told him just before they entered the ballroom, angering him, making him feel controlled
and used again. England was always like that.
His instinctive response to Lady Perdita increased his resolve not to slip into the
disastrous trap of romantic love. This time he wanted to go into matrimony clearly and
rationally.
But that accidental eye contact when he entered the ballroom tonight drove straight
through all his defences, straight to the lonely man deep inside the carefully constructed
society sophisticate. He needed to think, to consider, but he needed to get to know her
more. Perhaps she would be the delicate flower she appeared, and totally unsuited to the
role he was determined any wife of his would take. Mother to his daughter and elegant
society hostess. Perhaps a political hostess, if he should decide to take his life that way.
Nothing more.
“Lady Perdita, it is a delight to meet you,” he said, giving her his best urbane smile.
“Indeed, sir.” She looked up at him with a guarded expression, very unlike the open
gaze they had first shared.
“I take it your mama has been as busy as my aunt?”
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He shook her with his directness. Some of the guardedness fell, replaced by surprise.
He liked it. It gave her a mischievous elfin look that appealed to his sensual side. “Sir?”
“A possible match has been proposed for us, has it not?”
“I believe it has.” Perdita put her chin up in a gesture that seemed vulnerable, despite
her obvious spirit. “However, I am past the age when matches are made for me. I’ll not
enter into anything I may not wish for.”
“Admirable!” He turned to nod graciously to a lady approaching them, but before
she could interrupt their conversation, he led Perdita past her. “I like plain speaking,
though it is in short supply these days. Neither, madam, shall I enter a match not of my
own making. However, to deny the chance to become acquainted might be short-sighted
and prejudiced. I abhor prejudice.”
She frowned up at him, perplexity in her eyes. Charles felt a pang of concern when
he realised how well he could read her, this woman he’d only just met. He didn’t want to
get too close, too soon, and make another disastrous matrimonial mistake. One was more
than enough.
They reached the refreshment table. He picked up two glasses of wine and handed
one to her. “If I reject this proposal too quickly, my aunt will come up with another
candidate, and another, and another. Will this be your fate?”
“It will, sir. My mother knows I’m about to reject one suitor. But the season will be
over in a week or two; then I’m travelling north, to visit my great aunt. Aunt Grace lives
in the Lake District, and doesn’t go into society at all these days.” Her quickness to see
his point pleased him. An intelligent woman.
Charles frowned, and his excellent memory came to his aid. Lady Grace Garland had
until recently lived with another lady and never shown an interest in any man. She had
created quite a stir when she effectively eloped with the lady who had remained her
lifelong companion. His Aunt Maria still talked about it. That must be Lady Perdita’s
aunt.
She spoke again. “My mother is anxious to see me wed, but I have the independence
to be able to look about me with some care.”
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Charles recognised the warning. She was not any man’s for the taking. “What do you
seek in a husband, if I may be permitted to ask?” He put the glass to his lips and took a
sip, then saw that Lady Perdita watched him, fascinated.
He knew why, he’d heard the gossip. “Too Frenchified” they said. His elaborate
toilette disconcerted a lot of people on this side of the English Channel. He wasn’t yet
ready to abandon his face paint. It was useful. It meant he could conceal his true
thoughts, and he didn’t have to look at himself so often. It repelled amorous advances,
advances he had learned to despise. All he saw in the mirror was an artificial mask. He
preferred it that way.
“I have no idea, sir. I used to think I knew, but it seems to strike without warning,
and to the most unlikely people.”
“What does?” He smiled, and lowered his glass. “Oh. Love.” The word hung
between them. “That may not happen more than once.” He spoke as if she was far away,
as if everyone was.
“Indeed, sir.” She didn’t ask him, and looking at her, he saw why. She understood.
Lady Perdita Garland had seen love, or felt its power for herself, and she knew what it
was like. So had he, God help him. Never again.
“I don’t look for love in marriage, but I do insist on mutual respect.” Her tone was
brisk, as though she too dismissed the notion from her mind.
“A laudable ambition. Mutual trust too, I would suggest.” Trust above all things.
“It would be useful.”
“So you need honesty from your husband, for trust cannot come without it. That, you
may find, is harder to come by.” He took another sip of the admittedly excellent wine.
“I fear that is true. I will settle for respect.” She smiled lightly and handed him her
empty glass. He put hers with his on the table behind them and lifted his head at the
sound of the band tuning up. “They are about to strike up another dance, a minuet, I
believe. Would you do me the honour, ma’am?” He saw the doubt in her eyes, but chose
to ignore it.
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Perdita wondered if he’d seen her hesitation. She caught sight of Lord Munshin,
frowning in displeasure. He’d take her away, if she gave him the right to do so. Well, she
would not. Defiantly she placed her hand on the back of the one Lord Petherbridge held
out to her. She would dance.
The minuet was a dance of courtship and flirtation, where a woman kept the same
partner throughout, unlike most others. Perdita felt quite nervous, like a new girl, fresh
into society. She had no idea why this man made her feel like this. The hard muscle under
the silk of his coat reassured her that little padding was involved in the elaborate
confection he wore, but that could not be the reason for her lightness of heart.
Dancing was the last skill she re-learned after her accident. It had been like learning
to walk on new legs, limbs strange to her, that didn’t respond the way she expected them
to. Occasionally they gave way without warning, which was why she still carried a cane,
presently propped up next to the chair her mother occupied. Lady Taversall sent her a
reassuring smile. Perdita felt less nervous.
Responding to the music, the man facing her dipped into an immaculate bow, and
Perdita managed to rise from her curtsey without wavering. He took her hand to bend
over it, revealing strength she hadn’t been aware of before. He was supporting her! He
didn’t drop her hand when she took her second curtsey, and she actually felt him drawing
her up. Keeping her attention riveted on his eyes, she performed the first Z shape. She
read reassurance in his eyes.
The minuet took up a lot of space. It should strictly be performed alone, but Lady
Munshin’s ballroom could accommodate more than one couple, so they were thankfully
not alone. Lord Petherbridge turned her, holding her hand with a steadiness Perdita was
thankful for.
He moved with economy and supreme grace. While Perdita knew all eyes must be on
him, she tried to do her best, fully aware her own poise had diminished considerably
since she learned to walk again. Glancing away when the dance required it, she saw Lord
Munshin, glowering at the marquess. It was all she needed to steel her nerve.
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Turning back to her partner with a smile, she took both his hands for the two-handed
turn. Their touch appeared very light but strength radiated through him, his arms braced
to take her weight, if she should falter.
She did not. She would not stumble if her life depended on it. Perdita decided to
justify his lordship’s faith in her abilities, prove to herself and to anyone watching that
she was not an invalid any more. She performed the turn with almost as much grace as
she had been capable of a few years ago.
Pushing everything out of her mind except the steps and her partner, Perdita relaxed
into the music. She could trust him to make sure she didn’t make a fool of herself, and so
she could enjoy the dance as she used to, before her life went wrong. Before that stupid
decision that nearly cost her the use of her legs, and her other stupid decision that nearly
cost her brother Orlando his happiness. That she’d put matters right was the only reason
she could still live with herself.
She responded to Petherbridge’s touch, and he smiled slightly when he saw her
response. Any broader and his maquillage might crack, but Perdita had the unnerving
thought that the mask was for him to hide behind, and not to beautify himself. His
presence was so dominant and self-assured it was a strange thought, but it persisted,
despite her reason telling her the idea was a foolish one.
Perdita lost track of time. Only the turns and delicacy of their performance mattered,
only her response to his overtures. At one point she opened her fan and tried a few
flourishes, flirtatiously peeping at him over the top, turning her head to one side and then,
as though drawn, looking at him again.
She was almost sorry when the dance concluded. When he drew her up from the
final curtsey his eyes were all she saw, those living things in that dead mask. “Now that,”
he murmured, “was dancing!” Then he turned, and just as though nothing untoward had
occurred, took her from the floor in the direction of the tables. Her gown swished in the
sudden silence, but murmurs began again. He seemed prone to causing sudden silences.
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The other guests stared, some gazes envious, some calculating. They would discuss
the dance the next day, speculate about it. Perdita didn’t care. It wouldn’t be the first time
she’d been the centre of gossip, but this time the gossip wouldn’t be malicious.
He found them some more wine before he spoke. “I enjoyed that more than any
dance since I returned to this benighted country. It was like dancing with a fairy.” He
tilted his head to one side, his gaze fixed on her face. “In fact, you have the ethereal look
of a fairy. Can it be you’re a changeling?”
“Indeed not!” she exclaimed but his flirting amused her. She didn’t find it at all
threatening, despite the trap her parents and his aunt would have liked to set for them. “If
you had seen me last year, sir, I was far from a fairy! I take it you know of my accident?”
She hated the way people skirted around her fall, and preferred to get the topic discussed
and out of the way as soon as possible.
“My aunt mentioned it.”
“I spent six months not walking at all, and the next three learning how to walk again.
As a result, my figure lost its—fairylike quality and approached the sturdier dimensions
of a goblin.”
“I imagine you looked quite enchanting,” he said, smiling, “I imagine fairies come in
all shapes, just as humans do.”
“A fat fairy?” Perdita was delighted, all manner of delicious images springing up in
her fertile mind. A plump, diminutive fairy godmother, weighing down the flowers she
tried to perch on, laughing at the slides she created on the soft, downy petals.
“Generous,” he corrected. “Lady Perdita, may I take you driving tomorrow?”
“I should like that.” Goodness, she actually meant it! This man of extraordinary
appearance couldn’t be courting her for real? She narrowed her eyes. Could he? Did she
want him to? She still wasn’t sure.
“We might be seen in each other’s company for what remains of the season. I will
undertake not to compromise you, or be over-particular in my attentions, but I enjoy your
company, and besides, it will keep our inveterately matchmaking relatives at a distance.
Do you agree, ma’am?”
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She saw the sense of it. His request was so far from lover-like that it gave her the
confidence to trust him, at least this far. “Thank you, sir. Tomorrow then?”
“Tomorrow.”
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Chapter Two
Perdita couldn’t imagine why she was so keyed up. When the doorbell finally
sounded, she was in a fidget, and had to fight to regain her equilibrium. She’d been out
driving with many men before this; it was almost a daily occurrence during the season.
But she’d never felt like this.
Fluttering nervousness, as though he meant more to her than he should. As if she
were a green girl in her first season. She remembered that feeling, as clearly as if no years
separated them. Then, she’d been a pretty girl of no portion, sharing her brother’s
struggles to regain their fortune. Any man who drove her in the Park wanted her
company, not her money, because in those days she had little.
With their fortunes restored and her portion generous, she was no longer sure when a
man turned appreciative eyes to her. Except for today. She’d learned from her mother that
Lord Petherbridge was possessed of a large fortune. A very large fortune. He had two
sisters, one of whom was married, the other a young single lady. Rich when he’d married
the Frenchwoman, his Lordship was even richer now. So he must want her company,
mustn’t he?
When he entered the salon, he almost smiled. He must know to a nicety how much
he could move his face before the mask of maquillage cracked.
Her eyes focussed on his, the living entity in an artificial construct. They shone with
what she hoped was pleasure. “Good afternoon, sir. You are punctual, I see.”
“How could I resist? The earlier I am the more time I have to spend with you.”
A delightful response, not too intimate, not too distant. Perdita was forced to
acknowledge his excellent address, but then, he would have learned that in Paris. The
French were renowned for their address, if not for their sincerity. The compliment
seemed to be more important than the truthfulness behind it, to a Frenchman.
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Today, the sun was shining, she knew she looked at her best, and her escort was
charming. There was nothing left for her to do but enjoy herself.
His carriage was a fashionable phaeton, wheels picked out in yellow, with a dark
blue body. Not a speck of dust marred the soft leather upholstery or the shiny crest on the
door.
Perdita gathered her skirts and allowed him to help her up to the seat. Despite his
masterly performance the previous evening, she was surprised to find how strong the
marquess’s hand was under hers, almost giving the impression he could have lifted her up
to the seat single-handedly. It took quite an effort to climb in and appear graceful, but to
her delight, she managed the feat.
She took another look at the trim figure under the form-fitting dark green grosgrain
coat. No, such strength would surely require more muscle than this elegant gentleman
appeared to possess. He climbed up beside her and took the reins from his tiger, who
swung up behind them. Before he gave the two greys the office he glanced at her and
quirked a brow. “It’s a very well cut coat,” he remarked.
Perdita choked back her shocked laugh. He’d seen her watching him! She gave him a
smile instead, a reward for his perspicacity. His grin was slight, but it reached right to his
eyes.
He drove well. The phaeton was well sprung and very light, the horses highbred
beasts with velvet mouths, responding to every touch on the reins. After a few moments
Perdita realised she could relax, and began to enjoy herself.
She had traversed the short distance between her mother’s London home and the
Park many times before, but rarely with as much pleasure. The day was fine, and the
company pleasant. Her companion seemed to have the knack of continuing a
conversation without being too obtrusive, or too chatty, a skill few others seemed to
possess. They spoke of London and mutual acquaintances, and Perdita noted he barely
paused in his sentence when they reached the gates and he manoeuvred the carriage
through them.
“You drive excellently, sir.”
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He touched his whip to the brim of his cocked hat. “Thank you, ma’am. It’s a
pleasure to drive you. You take the corners without trying to lean the other way, and your
weight is so negligible I feel I could whip them up with no trouble at all.”
Perdita felt a twinge of anxiety. “You won’t, will you?”
She saw the smile again, more in his eyes this time. “No, I think I can promise you
that. I’m not sure the assembled company would appreciate such a performance. I could
mow down any number of the fashionable world, though.” He regarded a matron walking
by the path with her daughter, both with noses in the air. “Tempting.”
“Has Lady Wichton annoyed you?”
“She annoys me by existing. Her opinions are best kept to herself, particularly on
subjects she understands little, like art. She chooses her paintings on acreage.” He
chuckled. “I have a particularly fine Rembrandt, which she saw when she brought her
daughter to visit my sister. Unfortunately, it was too small for her liking. She expressed
the opinion that one would have to crowd in to see the details properly, instead of
providing a spectacle for a reasonable number of people.” Perdita crowed with laughter
and received another softened glance. “You like art?”
“Some of it. I do like Rembrandt.”
He feathered a corner in some style. “I’m fortunate to own it. If I asked you if you
wanted to come and see it, would you take it in the spirit in which it is meant?”
What was that? An invitation to view a painting could be seen as an overture to
flirtation—or more. Perdita was not sure what he meant. She had almost decided that his
preference was for the male sex, if not for his earlier marriage. That would not have
precluded his personal taste, of course, but he’d shown none of the fondness for young
men she’d seen in others who secretly preferred their own sex. She responded to him as a
man, and what could be a comfortable friendship was fast developing into a definitely
sharper interest.
“I would love to see your Rembrandt, sir, and of course I would take it in the right
spirit. If I knew what that was.”
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It was his turn to laugh, but he was careful not to crack his maquillage. Perdita
wondered if he ever removed the paint, and with that thought came another. What was he
covering up?
She could see little of his true features under the heavy disguise. The paint was thick
enough to cover blemishes, if he had any, the main reason people made up their faces so
heavily. However, he had been in France for most of his adult life, and such face paint
was usual there. A French nobleman was undressed without his maquillage. On the
whole, she preferred to think custom rather than disguise was the reason for his face
paint.
He still wore a wig, not unusual for a fashionable man anywhere, but it meant she
had no idea of the colour of his hair, or even if he had any. While the fashion of the day
made an older man look younger, since skin coarsening, wrinkles and greying hair were
covered up, it made a younger man appear older. Perdita knew a desire to see Lord
Petherbridge free of face paint, and was mildly surprised. They were to be friends, no
more than that, if she believed what he had said to her last night, and friends did not want
to reach out and touch.
Not that she did, Perdita told herself sternly. It was not to be thought of. “You have a
daughter, sir?”
“Yes.” There was no mistaking the softened tones this time. “Aimée. She is the most
beautiful child in the world.” He gave a short laugh. “Although you must know I would
say that. A bright girl, and my delight.”
Perdita had guessed that much. “She is fortunate to have such a loving father,” she
said politely. She should know. Hers hadn’t cared one bit.
“You will have to meet Aimée. I should warn you, I dote on her, so you will think
me extremely foolish.”
“I admire a man who openly loves his own child. So many do not.”
He shot her a perceptive glance. “Very true.” He paused, and Perdita acknowledged
an acquaintance in a passing landau. The woman nodded politely back, but her eyes
narrowed, and Perdita knew exactly why. Lady Corrington had a daughter, a rival to
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Perdita. Through her mother’s crisply accurate information system, Perdita was aware
that her ladyship had decided on the marquess for her daughter. Lady Corrington would
consider it a personal insult if Perdita took Lord Petherbridge away.
She rather thought she would enjoy that. She had never particularly liked Miss Anne
Corrington, a vain and deeply unintelligent person who worked very hard to retain her
ignorance, claiming that a man did not look for cleverness in a woman, but something
else entirely. Perdita wondered what they would talk about until they reached the
bedroom, and concluded that the marquess would rapidly be bored with Miss Corrington.
It was borne upon Perdita Garland that she was having a Golden Moment. She’d
discovered them when she was small, and learned to recognise them as something to be
treasured. They happened rarely, and out of the blue. The first one she could remember
was shortly after her mother’s marriage to Lord Taversall. She’d been playing hide and
seek with Orlando in their new home. He found her and gave her a hug, and they both
laughed. That was all, but joy filled them both. Their abusive father was dead, killed in a
duel over a woman, their mother was happy again, married to a man she loved deeply,
and who actually seemed to like Orlando and Perdita.
It all distilled in that moment, when Orlando gave her a brotherly hug. Now here was
another memory to store. The sun was shining warmly and she was sitting in a beautiful
carriage in the company of a man who was enjoying her company. Perdita took a moment
for herself, and carefully stored the memory away in her mind. A simple Golden
Moment, nothing significant as far as she knew, but a moment of sheer happiness, when
everything was all right. She heard the wheels bowling over the flat, gravelled path, felt
the sun on her back, warming her through the silk of her shawl and her gown, heard the
chatter of people around her. And when she looked up into the sky, she saw a swift,
swooping low over her head. She laughed from sheer joy.
A sharp exclamation, swiftly bitten off before the profanity entirely escaped his lips
made her pay complete attention to the man by her side. “Good God, what is she doing
here?” he cried, in a completely different tone of voice.
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If she was less surprised, Perdita might have admired his skill in bringing his horses
to a swift halt, and even more by his athletic leap from the vehicle, while his tiger
scrambled to take the reins and climb up beside her. He started in the direction of the
trees, a discreet gathering of oaks and sycamores, intended, she assumed, for added
privacy, if needed. A flash of yellow drew her attention to a parasol wielded by a lady
with her back to them, her hand resting on the arm of a man Perdita knew and had long
wished she didn’t.
Berrington.
Charles was halfway to the trees before he realised just how improper his behaviour
was. He didn’t stop walking, since the deed was done, but he owed Lady Perdita a deep
apology for his behaviour. The trouble was, once he saw Millicent heading for the
undergrowth he knew precisely what would happen next.
Exactly what happened last time. Only this time the result might not be as favourable
as the last. His sister was an accomplished flirt, and didn’t know where to draw the line.
The last time it had taken a fortune to quiet the budding scandal. Kissing a man in the
corridor at the Opera they had, not unnaturally, been seen. She was at it again, and
Charles intended to save himself considerable expenditure by finishing it now.
They were some way ahead, Millicent and the unknown man, and Charles hadn’t
caught up with them by the time they disappeared between the trees. Only a flick of blue
from Millicent’s gown betrayed their progression to the rear of the copse, where it was
darkest. Charles quickened his stride, until he heard something behind him and turned to
see the cause of it.
Damn! Lady Perdita was determinedly following. Why couldn’t she have waited in
the phaeton? He would have to take her into his confidence now. Charles frowned when
he saw her stumble on the rough ground. He had no choice. He waited for her.
Her breath came in short gasps, and it was only then he recollected her accident, the
one that had broken both her legs. His agitation had driven the memory momentarily out
of his mind. Lady Perdita had only been ambulant for a year, and still felt the effects of
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such severe injury. He’d felt as much last night, when he’d danced with her. He cursed
his carelessness that made him forget.
She stared at him, getting her breath back. “Don’t stop! Go after them!”
Astonished, Charles held his arm out for her. “Come. We’ll go after them together.
How did you know?”
She shot him a frowning look. “What else could it be but an impending scandal?
Who is she?”
“My sister Millicent.” The hand on his sleeve tightened, but she did not use him as
support, instead using it to help her quicken her stride.
They reached the trees. “Where are they?” he wondered. In the time he’d taken his
attention from his sister to attend to Lady Perdita, Millicent had disappeared.
“Shh!”
All he could hear was her laboured breathing, slowly settling. Then he heard a
giggle, some way distant. “There!” He set off as quickly as he could, considering he had
to consider someone else. He didn’t have to tow her, although his pace was probably too
quick for her.
The trees here, past the sycamores, were old elms, interspersed with newer saplings,
an artificial construct. Not being familiar with Hyde Park, he wasn’t sure where they led.
Although reading his mind she said, “This comes out by the Serpentine. There will be
people there.”
He let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “She’s a flirt,” he said,
lightly, “but too young to have complete control of herself. I returned from France to find
her deep in trouble, and having extricated her from that, I have no desire to see her do it
again.”
“She could empty your coffers.”
So she realised just how he’d extricated Millicent last time. He glanced at Lady
Perdita’s face, and saw total understanding there. He hoped he saw discretion, too. His
irritation with his sister grew. He had been enjoying his drive, and enjoying her company.
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Millicent had ruined it. He dismissed his twinge of regret and plunged on, determined to
do his duty.
Lady Perdita kept up, gamely refusing to lean on his arm, but determinedly keeping
pace with him. When he glanced at her, he saw her lips tightly compressed, a sure sign of
strain. He prayed the swift walk would do her legs no damage and fervently wished she’d
remained behind.
They came out of the trees suddenly, a small copse, but artfully designed. People
strolled this side of the bank of trees, enjoying the fine day and the view of the small river
winding through the park. The sunlight blinded him and he blinked while his eyes
adjusted to the altered circumstances. Then he spied his sister and the unknown man. She
stopped walking, and faced her suitor, ready for his kiss.
Charles watched, aghast, as Millicent moved closer to her swain. How much this
time? Two thousand? Three? More?
Then another couple moved out of the trees, heading for the Serpentine. Charles
recognised them at once. The Earl and Countess of Ilford. Incorruptible leaders of
society. If they saw this little scene, the game would be up, and his sister married to a
man who was likely a fortune hunter, prepared to milk Charles and his family of
everything he could get, and more importantly, make Millicent’s life a misery.
He felt a tug on his sleeve, and he turned, but without taking his attention from the
awful scene being enacted before him. When he finally looked at Lady Perdita, the
entreaty in her eyes startled him. Her hand curled behind his neck, and he bent towards
her, rather than resist. Then he realised what she was about.
A distraction. Perfect.
Their lips met. Feeling hers part under his, Charles succumbed to the urges never far
under the skin since he’d met her last night and clasped her closer, so she couldn’t get
away even if she wanted to. Her mouth hot under his, he pushed her lips further apart
with his own, so he could enter her with his tongue.
Exquisite hot, damp, warmth. Something he hadn’t felt for five years. The
welcoming, feminine form moved closer, and his hands tightened on the warm silk of her
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gown, giving himself up to the kiss, forgetting everything but their startlingly intimate
embrace.
When she gasped, he pushed his tongue between her lips in exploration, found the
firm, sweet roof of her mouth and stroked it, as though caressing her bare skin with his
hands. She was open to him, unknowingly offering all she could give, and if it weren’t
for the time and the place he would be tempted to take it.
His own thoughts reminded him of the time and place. Allowing courtesy to dictate
his actions, he slackened his grip, removed his tongue from her inviting mouth and
finished the kiss with a quiet, closed mouth caress.
Charles allowed himself a moment to gaze at her, so close, her wondrous blue eyes
as dazed as he knew his own must be. Then, brought back to the immediacy of the
situation, he drew back and looked around him.
For a moment, he’d forgotten where he was and what they were supposed to be
doing there. He couldn’t remember that happening to him before. Ever. Shaking the
feeling of otherworldliness out of his brain, he stopped to glance down at her.
He smiled, but Lady Perdita didn’t seem to be so amused. “The paint,” he explained,
groping for his handkerchief.
He found his handkerchief, but wouldn’t allow her to take it from him. Instead, he
applied himself to removing the smears from her face. “I can see where the marks are, so
let me do what I can. You’ve probably wrecked your reputation by this. Why did you do
it?”
“Can you see your sister?”
He glanced up. “Coming this way.” He grinned, careless of his mask. “She must
have been shocked out of her behaviour. I have a lot to thank you for, ma’am.” He
finished his task and would have put the handkerchief away, but she took it from him.
“I’m not sure how much I can do,” she commented, touching the cloth to his face,
just above his top lip.
“Clownish, I suspect,” he said. “Also beyond repair.”
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“I’m afraid you’re right.” He detected a very slight tremor in her voice and was glad.
He would make it his ambition to hear it again and try to increase it to a definite tremble.
“The earl and countess have gone. No doubt our names will be all over town by tonight.”
“We are supposed to be courting with the approval of our relatives,” she pointed out.
“Our behaviour might be seen as fast, but not unacceptable. I can still throw you over
with impunity when the time comes. It’s better than someone seeing a young girl kissing
someone as entirely unsuitable as Berrington.”
“I’m indebted to you.”
It was all he could say, as his sister and the man—Berrington?—were upon them. He
looked up with his practised, society smile and took his handkerchief back from Lady
Perdita. “Millicent! I didn’t know you planned to come here today. I would have escorted
you if I’d known.”
Millicent stared at Perdita. “Do I know you?”
Charles opened his mouth to reply, but was forestalled by his companion. “Have you
been away from society so long?” Her tone was exactly right, a mixture of genuine
puzzlement and aristocratic hauteur. He loved it.
Millicent flinched. “I must have been.”
Charles decided it was time to take a part in the conversation. “Lady Perdita, may I
present my sister, Lady Millicent Dalton. Millicent, this is Lady Perdita Garland.”
The ladies curtseyed, just as if they were in a ballroom. Lady Perdita executed hers
perfectly, without a wobble. Charles would have put money on her practising for several
hours in front of a mirror. It was how he’d achieved the effects he produced, seemingly
effortlessly. He turned to the gentleman accompanying Millicent and raised an eyebrow.
Millicent performed the necessary introduction, as he could not remember seeing the man
anywhere before, but from his fashionable dress he was a gentleman.
Millicent’s voice sank. “Petherbridge, this is Conrad Stalwood, Viscount Berrington.
Lord Berrington, this is my brother, Charles Dalton, Marquess of Petherbridge.” Charles
bowed, studying his opposite through his lashes.
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The man was disgustingly handsome. He wore his dark hair simply, tied back in a
queue and was dressed in well cut clothes, though not as costly as Charles’s own. Hardly
anyone’s were. He was taller than Charles by a couple of inches, which made him
uncomfortably tall, around six foot three or thereabouts, but he was nowhere near as
graceful. Charles knew exactly how graceful and elegant he was. He’d worked hard to
achieve both attributes, and he could control them to a nicety.
Meeting Berrington’s eyes, Charles smelled danger. He guessed Berrington to be
about his own age, thirty-two. Old enough to have gained experience, and young enough
to be attractive to an impressionable girl. Millicent was eighteen.
The man smiled at him affably, but Charles had a creeping feeling in his bones that
all wasn’t quite right with this man. Perhaps his smile was too eager to please. Charles
grimaced inwardly. It was hardly the first time anyone toadied to him, but he would
rather his sister’s potential suitor didn’t do such a thing.
“My lord, I hope you’re keeping well.” He wouldn’t have known the tight, prim
maiden for the woman he’d kissed a moment before except for the smudge of white paint
on her nose. Her face had closed up, her luscious mouth primmed in a firm line. Charles
was more than ever glad he was still wearing most of his paint. He’d learned to veil his
eyes to conceal his emotions, and he masked his surprise, deliberately putting a bland,
unsmiling face on, to compliment the painted one.
Berrington gave Lady Perdita a flourishing bow. “As ever, Lady Perdita.” He purred
her name, making Charles want to punch him. It implied intimacy he wasn’t sure
Berrington was entitled to. He knew he wasn’t. His sister, ever the eager innocent, didn’t
notice.
“I am so glad you have finally met my brother, dear Lord Berrington!” Charles gave
an inward shudder at his sister’s fond tones. Did she have to wear her heart on her sleeve?
If he spoke to her sternly, he would only make matters worse, and she might be more
extreme in her behaviour, just to annoy him. His return after so many years abroad had
unnerved the whole family.
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It couldn’t be helped. He wanted to bring his daughter up as British, and it meant
returning to the country he’d left with such fine dreams a dozen years before. He stepped
forward and took Millicent’s hand, placing it on his sleeve and holding it there with his
other hand until her efforts to pull away from him stopped.
“Shall we return to the carriages?” He shot Lady Perdita an apologetic glance, but
she seemed quite composed, allowing Lord Berrington to escort her. Perhaps her stiffness
was a result of being compromised by his kiss. Not too compromised, he hoped. Or did
he?
Lady Perdita was the first woman to hold his interest in years, here or in France.
After his wife’s death and for some time before it, he’d seen to his physical needs
dispassionately and cleanly, with a woman who understood the nature of their
arrangement and bade him farewell with none of the clinging he disliked. No woman had
stirred anything but physical desire in him for years. He thought romantic feelings dead, a
symptom of youth, killed early in him, perhaps, but the decline was inevitable. Now, with
one kiss, he was not so sure.
They strolled through the copse. Charles heard the murmur of polite conversation as
Lady Perdita and Lord Berrington followed them. Millicent accompanied him in icy
silence. It was likely she knew her behaviour was inappropriate, in which case a scold
would be worse than useless. He contented himself with a low, “You will not do such a
thing again, Millicent, will you?”
Millicent shook her head.
Charles sighed, and allowed the frost to prevail until they reached the carriages. He
was loath to return his sister to Lord Berrington’s care, even for the short drive home, but
he was given another reason to be thankful to Lady Perdita. “Lord Berrington will see me
home, if that is all right with you, sir,” she said to him when they faced each other once
more. “Thank you for a very enjoyable afternoon.”
“Not the last, I hope,” he murmured, bending over her hand, and bestowing the
lightest of kisses just above it. It would have been unmannerly to mar her glove with
paint. Almost as unmannerly as crushing her supple body to his, and pressing his lips
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fervently to hers. At the memory, something stirred, and this time he recognised physical
desire. He relaxed. Perhaps it was that all along. The smile he gave her was slight, but
warm.
“I would be flattered if you called.” Her warning look told him she expected it. She
was right. They had agreed to be seen together. He could not leave her to face the
disapprobation, which would surely follow, if he abandoned her now.
“I would like to call on you tomorrow, if I may. Will you be at Lady
Farnborough’s?”
“Yes, I believe my mother plans to go. I will look forward to it.”
“Save me a minuet.”
The slight flush in her cheeks told him all he wanted to know. She was not entirely
unaffected, and their kiss had not been unsuccessful. She was interested. He’d better draw
off a little, at least in personal contact, before society made their minds up for them, but a
few social meetings were almost expected, after the kiss. His bow was punctilious. “I
thank you for a delightful afternoon. A demain.”
Turning to Millicent, he helped her up to her seat before walking around the carriage
and taking his own. The nattily attired tiger swung up behind.
Perdita watched them go, and then turned to Berrington. Any hope she might have of
polite, impersonal conduct was shattered by his first words. “I wouldn’t look to him,
sweetheart. The marquess is an impregnable fortress.”
That “sweetheart” grated badly. She was nobody’s sweetheart, least of all
Berrington’s. He knew what the word would do to her, and worked hard to keep her mask
of polite indifference, setting her jaw and stiffening the muscles of her face. “Our parents
introduced us, and we enjoy each others’ company.”
“So I noticed.” Berrington held his hand out and she realised he expected to hand her
up to the curricle. She was in control of herself, and her hand didn’t tremble when she
laid it in his. She was proud of that. Settling her skirts gave her enough excuse not to look
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at him when he sat beside her and took up the reins. Then she was able to nod to her
acquaintances as they left, and avoid his gaze.
“I haven’t seen you for a long time,” he murmured. They swept past the gates ready
for another circuit. Perdita growled low in her throat.
“I decided not to appear in society until I was fully recovered,” she said, calmly
enough.
“Ah, Perdita!” He sounded genuinely grief stricken, though she knew how well
Berrington could turn his emotional taps on and off. “Your watchdog of a brother
wouldn’t allow me in to see you. I called day after day, but I never caught a glance of
you.”
“You weren’t meant to. I didn’t wish to see anyone.”
“I saw Lady Judith Wayland enter your house a few times.”
Perdita grimaced. “Except for Judith.” She preferred not to think about Judith.
Another of her mistakes.
She saw his grin out of the corner of her eye. “Juicy scandal, that, her father running
off with his mistress. Rumour has it they’ll be coming back to town soon to face the
scandal down.”
“Who? The marquess?” Perdita turned to him, startled. Judith’s father had given his
heart to the most notorious courtesan in London and they had retired abroad. There would
be no living that down.
“No, the marchioness and Lady Judith. She still has a husband to find.”
Perdita swallowed. It would be hard to face Judith again. She had sacrificed her
friendship for her brother’s happiness. While she would do it again, given the chance, she
had no wish to renew her acquaintance with the woman who for twelve months was her
only companion outside her family. “It’s a little late to be coming to London. Most
people are leaving for the country.”
He slanted her a glance. “I believe they want to test the waters before they return in
the autumn. Will you receive them?”
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Perdita gave every impression of nonchalance. She shrugged. “If they wish to see
me, but I don’t wish them to call. I won’t cut them, however. In any case, I shall be gone
soon.” She bit her lip. She didn’t want him, or any other member of the ton knowing
where she was going. She was tired, and looked forward to a few weeks without being on
show, living quietly with her favourite aunt.
He didn’t ask, but seemed more interested in Lady Judith. Understandably. Judith
was in possession of a tidy portion, and not many men would be willing to take her, after
her behaviour last summer. Judith preferred female company, and now the world knew it.
It would be better than targeting pretty, young Lady Millicent. “Will you make a
play for her?”
Berrington laughed. “I might.” He nearly put the carriage over when he tried to turn
a corner in style.
Perdita gripped the seat. She didn’t feel as safe with him as with Lord Petherbridge.
Not in any sense of the word. She didn’t want her legs re-broken, but if she said anything
about his reckless driving, he would be worse and they would have an accident for
certain. The thought terrified her. The pain, the inactivity, the sheer boredom of her time
as a bedridden invalid. It would not happen again, it would not!
He chuckled, and she knew he saw her face tense when she’d set her jaw. “I’ll get
you home safe. I know the way well enough.” He paused, driving a short way in silence.
Perdita concentrated on breathing steadily. “I would love to resume our acquaintance,
you know that.”
“You never told me how poor you were. When Orlando informed you we were as
poor as you, your interest in me ceased.”
“That wasn’t true though, was it Perdita? He lied. You were poor, once, but not when
I wanted to marry you.” His voice softened, to one of reason, trying to reason with a
child. “You know I cannot marry a pauper, Perdita. Not for love, not for any reason. I
thought, since we were in love, we might make a match of it but it seemed love wasn’t
enough for you.”
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“That’s not true!” she cried, agitated and stung by his accusation. “When you
discovered I was penniless, you turned to Judith quicker than winking!”
“It broke my heart. I have people to care for, Perdita, tenants and domestics. I need
to marry money.”
Previously, his saddened tone would have convinced her, but Perdita was no longer
so naïve. He cared little for his tenants and had few domestics left. “So did we. Instead of
hunting for a rich bride, my brother worked out a way to restore our finances.”
Berrington’s lip turned up in a sneer. “By going into trade!”
“We’re proud of it, too. He invested, used what assets we had to make more. It took
years, but we did it.”
He frowned. “It isn’t suitable.”
“Anyone would think you were French!” French aristocrats were not permitted to go
into trade. There were no such foolish restrictions set on their British counterparts.
“Your new friend might as well be.” To Perdita’s relief they were nearly at her
home, a bare street away. “Lord Petherbridge spent all his adult life in France. At
Versailles. He’s not likely to take you seriously.”
She hadn’t considered that. Was Lord Petherbridge more French than English? His
appearance certainly was, but what of his opinions, his sentiments? Once he learned that
Perdita’s brother had restored the family fortunes by careful investment, and taking part
in London’s building boom, would he drop her as embarrassingly as Berrington had?
It seemed possible, if not probable. Perdita cursed herself for her foolish fondness.
She never thought first, she always plunged into trouble. She must be careful, lest she end
up in the suds yet again.
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Chapter Three
Two days after the drive in the park, Charles attended the Corrington entertainment
at their home outside London. He took his daughter, and spent some time with her, only
leaving her when one of the Corrington girls offered to walk with her in the park, within
sight of the house.
Normally Charles would have avoided the affair, a whole day on the Corrington’s
Richmond estate, an open-air afternoon entertainment, dinner and a ball. Lady Corrington
had high hopes of him for one of her daughters. Lovely creatures, but possessed of the
same overweening self-satisfaction that characterised their mother. He doubted he could
live with such haughtiness, even to have the privilege of gazing on their beauty. The
daughter of his choice would never allow him to see her tousled and sleepy in the
mornings, and he had discovered that was one of the most delightful things about
intimacy. Just thinking of it, a warm, willing, sleepy woman, made his groin stir.
Until he realised that for the first time, his vision had a face. A tumble of silvery fair
hair, a piquant little chin and blue, blue eyes.
Not possible. Or was it? No, Charles told himself firmly. Not yet, at any rate. They
had barely met, and his immediate suspicions were aroused when his aunt informed him
that a match between himself and Lady Perdita Garland would be desirable. His aunt’s
judgement was far from sound.
Not for the first time he wished his father hadn’t died so young. Charles had been
barely eighteen, certainly unable to appreciate what had just been hurled into his lap, and
unaware of the heavy responsibilities he was about to take on.
The estate in the secure hands of his uncle as guardian, Charles fled abroad on the
Grand Tour and never came back, except for very brief visits. After Francine’s death, his
uncle demanded his return and Charles could avoid it no longer. To his surprise he
discovered that he’d learned more than he’d imagined helping his wife care for her
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extensive lands, technically his, but in fact still hers, and the information his uncle sent
him about his own lands taught him more than he realised.
Lord Rupert was living quietly and happily with his wife in a snug house in
Grosvenor Square these days, and Charles accepted his responsibilities. Something he
should have done when his father died.
He glanced around the park, fully aware he was looking for one person in particular.
The park was a riot of colour, both gorgeously elaborate and exquisitely pale, sometimes
at the same time, flowers and silks with similar colours blending into each other. Pinked
ruffles were all the rage this season, and many gowns held as many as they could bear.
Charles enjoyed the exuberance of the English, not restrained by French elegance.
Contrivance was here, as everywhere, but personality showed through, unlike the
perfectly attired and enamelled exquisites of the French court.
Fresher, too. He’d detested the filth of Versailles. When the king was in residence all
the time, there was no opportunity for the domestics to give the palace a complete and
thorough clean, so parts of the building were exquisite to look at but needed very strong
perfumes to endure for more than an hour at a time. Here, where the residents fled to the
country in the good weather, dirt had shorter shrift, although, he realised when a
particularly strong body odour circled around him from a passing lady, it was still an
individual choice.
The smell of the occasional unwashed body was rarer here, and subsumed beneath
the scent of perfumes and summer flowers. Charles took a glass from a tray borne by a
passing footman. The wine was ice cold and very welcome. French, of course.
A movement behind him made him glance around, and he was glad he had done so.
Lady Perdita, ethereally lovely in hyacinth blue, accompanied by her mother, the
redoubtable Lady Taversall, the Triple Countess. They both gave him a welcoming smile.
He saw Lady Taversall’s appreciative smile when he rose from his bow. “Living in
France has given you an air of distinction, my lord, one you were far from having when
you left.”
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“I was eighteen, ma’am,” he reminded her. He disliked Lady Taversall’s habit of
driving straight to the point, but her age and position gave her an unassailable position in
society. “I learned a great deal in France. Not all of it good.”
Lady Taversall’s mouth tightened. “I can imagine. We have heard great scandals
about the goings-on at Versailles.”
“They have little else to do,” he answered. “The nobility, especially of the highest
rank, are forbidden to engage in trade or finance.”
Lady Taversall gave an unladylike snort. “Fools! How do they ever expect to bring
prosperity to their country, if they don’t bring it to themselves?”
He smiled. “Indeed, ma’am. The inactivity is seductive at first, but it soon tires. My
late wife, however, couldn’t live without it, or so she frequently informed me.” He stared
directly at her, challenging her to respond. She didn’t disappoint him.
“You were unfortunately young when you married. I have often wondered—”
Wisely, she allowed the moment to slip. “No matter,” she concluded briskly. “You are
home now. Do you mean to stay?”
“France holds nothing for me any more. I still have extensive holdings there, but I
have a competent man in charge, and I’m as near to most of them here as I was in
Versailles.”
“Will your daughter inherit?”
He raised a brow at the direct question, but deigned to answer. “She is a considerable
heiress. And a comtesse in her own right, although I prefer her to use her English title. I
wish her to be an Englishwoman.” He wanted Aimée to grow up far from the intrigues
and corruption of the French Court. She could have grown to be like her mother, God
forbid! He smiled at Lady Perdita. “Would you like to meet her, ma’am? It would be an
honour to introduce you.”
“I would be delighted.”
Lady Taversall made no demur at her daughter going off on her own with him. There
were chaperones aplenty, should they be required. Also, a few secluded spots which
Charles had carefully scouted earlier. He hoped he might have an opportunity to use
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them. He relished the light pressure of her hand on his arm and turned to smile down at
her, only to see her forehead creased by a frown. “Is something bothering you?”
“Yes.” She looked away from the couple staring at them, to him. “They are all
talking and gossiping about us. I hate it, I’d forgotten how much.”
“Let them. We’re committed to nothing, aren’t we, and if it helps your reputation,
I’ll allow you to slap my face in public and stride off. You can have all the credit for
unmasking my dastardly nature.”
“As if that would help!” She scowled, adorably, he thought. “I’d be labelled a
shrew.”
“And I would be besieged all over again.” He laughed. “That makes me sound a
terrible coxcomb! I have to remind myself that it’s not me, it’s my fortune they want.”
“How can you know that? You are a charming gentleman.”
He inclined his head in a slight bow. “Thank you. I’m glad you think so.” That was
no polite acceptance. He was glad. “However, most of the ladies don’t bother to discover
my nature. It is abundantly clear what they want. My title and my fortune.” He stopped.
No woman could want what was underneath the silks adorning his body. At least, the
grotesque hunchback crouching inside him frequently told him so. A fool.
“I cannot believe that.” Her mouth set in a determined line. “How can you even
imagine it?”
He quickened his pace when he saw the slight figure ahead of him, and watched the
flood of delight when she turned and saw him. “Papa!”
Without thinking, he bent and swept her into his arms. The love of his life. His
Aimée. He stood up, and only then realised he’d shaken Lady Perdita’s arm free when
he’d seen his daughter. Well, that put things into perspective. Perhaps.
“Aimée, I would like you to meet someone.” After giving her a hug, he bent and put
her back on her feet. He was careful to make the introduction formal, and as etiquette
required, introduced the lowest rank to the highest, flattering Aimée and making her
smile. Lady Perdita’s curtsey was faultless, her expression friendly and Aimée gave her
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obeisance with French flair. His little girl was gorgeous today, not a hair out of place,
dressed in her favourite pink silk. He knew he spoiled her. He had no one else to spoil.
Aimée smiled graciously at Lady Perdita, then turned to her father. “Will you walk
with me, Papa? I want to go to the lake, but that bête, Miss Grey, won’t allow it without
your permission.”
He chuckled. “Hush, minou, you mustn’t call your good nurse a bête! Yes, of course
I will walk with you. In a little while.”
The look came over her face that he’d learned to dread. Her eyes became stony, her
forehead creased and she opened her mouth. No, not here! For the first time he could
remember, Charles felt embarrassed for his daughter. He understood her tantrums, who
better? Her mother had been adept at them, but at least Francine knew when to avoid a
scene. His daughter was too young, but he hoped to find a nurse who could teach her. It
seemed not, at least not so far.
Before the first bellow, before she could do her worst, Charles took her little hand in
a strong grip. The sudden pain made her wince, and he immediately felt as much of a
beast as her nurse. “I’m sorry, minou; perhaps we should take that walk. Have you been
waiting for long?”
The transformation warmed him, the way Aimée’s face softened and her scowl was
replaced by a sunny smile. “Forever, Papa,” she assured him. She returned the grip on his
hand, so it was Charles’s turn to wince, but in mock pain. “Silly Papa! What took you so
long?”
“I waited for Lady Perdita,” he said. “I wanted you to meet her.”
“Why?” The child threw Perdita a look of contempt.
Perdita was appalled. The way he described Aimée made Perdita believe she was
about to meet a paragon of a child, perfection in infantile form. Instead, she found a brat.
A beautifully gowned princess of a brat, admittedly, but a child possessed of an indulgent
father, and without, it seemed, any mitigating presence to curb her behaviour.
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Perhaps Lord Petherbridge wasn’t for her, after all. However, the quick glance he
shot her seemed apologetic. Aimée skipped by his side, her miniature hooped skirt
swinging precariously. “Did you introduce your daughter to the Court?” she wondered,
knowing the level of etiquette prevailing at Versailles would not have accepted such
boisterous behaviour.
He smiled at her. “I thought Aimée too young. We had an hôtel nearby. Aimée lived
there for the most part.”
“How did your wife feel about that?”
Another glance. She’d touched on a raw spot. “She took Aimée to Court once or
twice.”
His nonchalance didn’t fool her. A matter of dispute between them, then.
“I liked court,” Aimée piped up. Perdita smiled at her and received a stony glare in
return.
Perhaps she was being too hasty. If the child thought she would lose her father to
Perdita, animosity would be natural, and in such a small being, tantrums might form her
only weapon. She decided to be pleasant to the child.
It became harder. When her father coaxed Aimée away from the lake with promises
of treats instead of ordering her to come out of danger, Perdita winced. When she asked
the child to name her favourite activities, she unwittingly let forth a stream of inanities,
none of which would do her any good. “Playing with my babies, and my baby house.
Papa made them pack it so carefully, and yet they still broke several objects! I had to buy
them all over again! I like to play games with Nurse, but at bedtime she is not always
willing to play. I can usually make her.” Perdita hated to think how the child made her
nurse, and pitied most sincerely the servant who had to bow to this little tyrant’s wishes,
for fear of dismissal.
“How many nurses have you had?”
Aimée gave her father a melting look through her lashes. “How many, Papa?”
He groaned. “Too many.”
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Perdita’s heart hardened. Spoiling a child wasn’t good for the child or the parent. Her
very early years were hard, but Orlando remembered more about them than she did.
When she was tiny, her mother married Lord Taversall and he became more of her father
than her drunken, wastrel real father had ever been. Her upbringing had been in the
nursery with her half brothers and sisters, not spoiled, but comfortable and secure.
This child needed siblings, but she was five years old, and already it might be too
late. Her gown probably cost more than many of the ones worn by the ladies around
them, exquisite with fine lace and silk ribbons. It must be difficult to wear, Perdita
thought, remembering the muslin and wool gowns of her childhood. Perhaps Aimée had
simpler clothes to play in, but somehow Perdita doubted it. Searching for neutral ground,
she said, “You will need a governess soon, will you not?”
The girl raked her with a freezing stare. Blue eyes turned to ice as they assessed and
dismissed her. At that moment, Perdita knew she could never be friends with this child.
Not as she was, and her father doted on her so much it was doubtful Aimée would ever
let him go. Shuddering at the thought of sharing her affection with such a rival, she firmly
put the idea of anything permanent with his lordship aside. An adult rival she could cope
with, but not this, a spoiled child.
Fixing a polite society smile on her face, Perdita set herself to endure. It was clear,
from the looks they received as they passed, that Perdita and Lord Petherbridge were
already regarded as a couple. Or, at the very least, a potential couple.
It was a pity, she thought, stealing a glance at him. She liked Lord Petherbridge.
Despite the clothes and the maquillage, a strong man lay beneath. The small sword at his
side reminded the onlooker that it was not for ornament only, even if the weapon was a
highly decorated dress sword. It could probably damage an opponent just as effectively as
an army sabre.
The child skipped by his side as they approached the water, where several pure white
swans glided effortlessly.
“It looks so peaceful,” she commented.
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A wry smile quirked one corner of his mouth. “On the surface, yes. But it takes a
great deal of effort to make it look that way.”
He was right. And it took a lot to maintain such an astonishing appearance as he
presented, too. The landscape was as carefully considered as he was.
Her brother Orlando would be amazed if she betrothed herself to Petherbridge. He
was her legal guardian, in charge of her financial affairs, so he would be the first to know
if she received and accepted an offer.
It would not be now. Even if Petherbridge asked her, she would probably say no.
Before liking could turn into something else far more dangerous. The memory of their
kiss warmed her through, gave her feelings she knew were wrong so early in a
relationship. For one moment she had forgotten the reason for the kiss, forgotten where
she was, and only knew a desire to feel his hands on her bare skin, stroking and soothing.
Hastily she pushed the memory aside, and turned to where Aimée was dancing
precariously close to the water. The lake had steep sides that plunged straight down, for
ornament, not for play. A frisson of concern prickled her spine, and without thinking
further, Perdita surged forward and swept the child up.
Only to slip. Her feet slid out from under her and she cried out in terror as she fell
backwards, the child in her arms.
Hands pushed under her armpits, dragging her back. A lock of hair fell into her eye,
but she couldn’t push it away, as her hands were full of struggling little girl. Aimée’s
screams pierced the air, seeming to get louder as they were pulled away from the
treacherous lake. Her petticoat ripped when she caught the heel of her shoe in it in her
efforts to get to her feet.
A small crowd of interested spectators had gathered, and all seemed to have a
different point of view. “What was that about?”
“The child was leaning too far over.”
“It rained this morning. The bank must be slippery.”
“What a sight!”
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Comments flowed past, and Perdita wanted to die. Her hat, a fine chip straw was
hopelessly crushed under her back. She blinked and found a hand held out. Grasping it,
she was hauled to her feet and then abandoned when his lordship swept his child into his
arms. “Are you all right, my pet?” he crooned.
The wails subsided. Perdita saw Aimée slip her thumb into her mouth, and stare at
the crowd. To Perdita’s chagrin, the child only needed her skirts smoothing. Perdita had
broken her fall.
Perdita was in a terrible state. From the clammy feeling at the back of her legs she
knew she was covered in mud behind. Her hat was crushed, her hair disordered and
probably muddy, too. Worse, she trembled in terror.
Ever since her accident, Perdita had been careful to avoid falling, worried her newly
knitted bones would shatter again. Lord Petherbridge, his daughter safely balanced on his
hip, was the first to reach her. “Lady Perdita, I owe you a debt of gratitude. I cannot thank
you enough.”
Perdita knew she had acted unwisely, and the realisation made her cross. “It was
nothing. There might have been no danger had the child stayed by your side.”
“Are you all right?”
She put her chin up. “Perfectly, I thank you.” In fact, she knew she’d collected at
least one bruise, but her shield came up, the one she had hidden behind for over a year.
“Perdita!” Her mother’s voice, sharp with alarm, broke into the scene. Perdita turned
to her in relief. The one person who knew her so well she didn’t have to hide. Her
stepfather followed closely behind her mother, his face drawn and anxious. “You’re sure
you’re not hurt?”
She saw understanding dawn in Lord Petherbridge’s eyes, together with a growing
horror. “Lady Perdita, I never thought! I should have insisted you stayed lying down,
should I not? Oh Lord, what can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” she said bitterly. He could have thought of it earlier. It was natural for
him to be concerned for his daughter, but when she looked at Aimée, a gleam of
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satisfaction lit the little girl’s face and unseen by anyone but her, she stuck out her
tongue.
The child planned it! It worked better than she knew. Perdita was not only
bedraggled and deeply mortified, she was shaking in terror. Her shoulders tensed, and she
deliberately moved them in an effort to relax.
“Come.” Lord Taversall held out his hand, and Perdita thankfully placed her own in
it. “I’m sure there will be a bedroom for you to use while you wash and change.”
Their hostess came forward, a slight, pretty woman of middle age, her face creased
in concern. “What a terrible thing! Perhaps I should have this part of the grounds roped
off. I hadn’t realised it could be dangerous.” She gave Perdita a quick glance. “We’re of a
height. I’m sure I can find something for you to wear.”
Miserably Perdita trailed off to the house, her hand gripping her stepfather’s, feeling
all of fifteen years old, the time when many girls spent their time wreathed in
embarrassed blushes over some small transgression or another. Not that this was small.
She’d be lucky if she didn’t see caricatures of herself like this in the print shop windows
in the morning.
She felt humiliated, ashamed. She looked terrible, and in front of half of fashionable
society.
Foolishly, she felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her world. To be bested by a
five year old! That one glance told her all she needed to know; Aimée saw her as a rival
for her father’s attention, and any life with him would be a constant competition. Best she
broke it off, before she grew fonder of him.
Lady Corrington took her to a pleasant room on the first floor—hers, she informed
Perdita and Lady Taversall. She went to find something suitable for Perdita to wear,
while Lady Taversall and a maid stripped the garments from Perdita and washed her with
the hot water a maid brought to them. Her gown, petticoat, stockings and shoes were
ruined with the mud from the lakeside, but Perdita was glad. She would never wear them
again, even if they could be rescued. They would have reminded her of this day.
Absurdly, she felt like crying. Another prospect gone, another step nearer to a barren
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middle age. Some women, her Aunt Grace among them, were happy without a man in
their lives, but Perdita knew she would find her greatest happiness only with a man, a
husband to care for. She felt lonely on her own, even though she might have to learn to
live with it.
Lady Corrington returned, bearing a ravishing gown of sprigged silk, so fine it would
hardly weigh anything at all. The pretty flowers rioting across the pale pink silk made her
smile, something she would need to practice in the coming months if she was not to sink
into a self-pitying depression. The colour wasn’t quite suited to her but she couldn’t
complain. And her ladyship wanted her daughters to show to advantage today before
Lord Petherbridge.
While her mother and the maid helped her into the gown and pinned up her still-
damp hair, Perdita let her mind wander, but it inevitably came back to the same thing.
The kiss in the park. Why had she allowed it, encouraged it? She’d meant it as a quick
peck, a slight distraction to allow Petherbridge’s sister to realise they were overlooked,
and a chance for her to defeat Berrington. For a time after her accident that had been the
only thing to keep her going, until she realised it would do her no good. Now, with
another innocent in his sights, Berrington was dangerous again.
That kiss. She touched her mouth as she remembered the way he’d taken it,
possessed it, as though his to take. Once past the taste of the lip rouge he used, it had
been all seduction, all pleasure. She’d kissed men before, not too many, it was true, but
enough to know that the kiss Petherbridge had given her was extraordinary. It connected
them in an intimate way she’d never felt before. It was only that kiss that prevented her
putting him out of her mind forever. She found herself thinking of it at most inappropriate
moments, like just as she fell asleep at night, or first thing in the morning.
Perhaps it would fade in time. She could only hope so.
As they walked down the broad staircase her mother said, “Just show that you’re
unharmed and smiling, Perdita. Then we’ll take our leave. We don’t want to leave them
with the image of you muddied and cross.” Perdita saw the sense in that and readily
agreed.
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She was greeted with smiles and gentle enquiries. It relieved her to find Lord
Petherbridge was nowhere in sight. Neither was his daughter. She didn’t ask, not wanting
to know, but assumed they’d left.
They had not. When she excused herself to go indoors for the necessary, Perdita
found herself facing Petherbridge in the entrance hall. It was impossible to see if he paled
when he saw her because of the maquillage, but Perdita did. His eyes widened slightly
and he stepped forward with an easy smile. “Lady Perdita, well met. I thank you sincerely
for your help with my daughter.”
“That’s quite all right sir. As you can see, I am fully recovered.”
He bit his lip. “That was my next question. Would you favour me with a private
word?”
Her heartbeat quickened and Perdita took a deep breath. “It cannot be long. People
are talking already.”
“I know.” He led the way to a small door at the back of the hall that led into what
looked like a private morning room.
“You know your way around this house, sir,” she commented.
“I do, don’t I?” He gave her an easy smile. “I made sure of it earlier. I like to quarter
my territory.”
“Oh.” Perdita turned to look out of the window and realised this room faced the front
of the house. All the guests were at the back, in the grounds. They were effectively alone.
She tried not to let it bother her. “What did you wish to say to me?”
She turned. He looked different, but she couldn’t say why. His smile was easy, and
far too intimate for her liking. “To give you my thanks and maybe have a quiet word with
you.”
“I’ll be leaving London soon to visit my aunt. It’s a private visit.”
He regarded her closely, the smile gone. “May I write to you?”
“If you wish.” One of the advantages of being at the advanced age of seven and
twenty was the lessening of chaperonage. It always irked Perdita, as if she couldn’t
manage for herself, and the consequent lessening of restrictions made her much easier.
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As if all she had to do was to be alone in a room with a man to fall into his arms! She
skimmed past the thought, not wanting to dwell on it. “I will give you my direction
before I leave.”
“Thank you.” His gaze skittered away from her, as though he was embarrassed. “I
have to thank you for helping my daughter. I know she’s a minx, but she’s the light of my
life.”
Good for her. “Is she intelligent?”
The smile returned, but it was not for her. “Very bright.”
“May I suggest something?” Perdita wondered if she was doing the right thing, but if
she didn’t speak her mind she would not do herself justice.
“Of course.” He moved closer, and Perdita realised what was different about him.
He’d removed his lip rouge, revealing his own mouth which she already knew to be soft
and now saw was full and sensual. Her heart beat a little faster and she cursed herself for
being foolish enough to allow that small sight to affect her so much.
“It might be a good idea if you found Aimée a governess soon. Such intelligence
should be nurtured, and the earlier the better.”
His mouth twisted. “Perhaps you’re right.” Perdita knew he recognised the tactful
way she tried to phrase her request. “I haven’t spent as much time with her as I would
have liked. In France my wife insisted Aimée had her own household, and she was
always surrounded by attendants whose only desire was to serve her.”
Perdita recognised it as an acknowledgement. He knew she was spoiled. She also
knew it would make matters very difficult for any woman Lord Petherbridge might
decide to marry. It would not be her, forced into rivalry with a five year old. However
much she was attracted to him, it would not happen.
He stood very close to her, so close that if she moved her hair might brush his chin.
“I fear you’re right. I can’t keep her to myself for much longer.”
“I thought it was the other way around.”
“No.” His voice was scarcely above a whisper. “May I kiss you goodbye?”
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“I—” She looked up at him, and was immediately captivated by those fine,
gloriously green eyes. He seemed to be similarly mesmerised, but not for long. He must
have read consent in her, for his arms went around her and he bent his head.
The kiss was leisurely and delicious. His lips caressed hers, softly inviting her to
open for him. When she did so, he didn’t immediately plunge his tongue into her mouth,
but stroked her lips gently with the very tip, as though asking her permission, rousing her
senses more than she thought it possible to do with a kiss. When he did enter her mouth,
it was reverently, with a care she’d never experienced before. A gourmet, tasting a dainty
morsel couldn’t have taken more care to savour, to enjoy. Perdita allowed herself to relax
into his arms, feeling him strongly supporting her, his hands spread over her back, the
fingertips gently pressing into her over-sensitive skin. Everything centred on where their
mouths met.
Held close Perdita felt cherished, adored, but it was not time to think that way. She
hardly knew him, except to realise he attracted her strongly in a physical sense. Physical
attraction was not enough. Her mother had freely confessed to her that her second
marriage to the Earl of Blyth was a disaster, despite her strong physical attraction to him.
She had not given herself time to get to know the handsome rake who turned out to be a
profligate wastrel.
Perdita always swore she would never rush into a relationship but never had it been
as hard as it was now. She wanted nothing more than to stay here in his arms, being
kissed senseless.
The kiss turned more demanding. He reached deeply into her, and his movements
became rhythmic, thrusting and withdrawing in a parody of sexual congress. His hand
slid up to cover her breast and she felt his touch burn right through her gown, stays and
shift. Perdita should have broken away. She did not. Instead, she responded, receiving
him and even replying with a few tentative thrusts of her own.
She drank the deep groan that entered with his tongue, feeling the sound reverberate
through her whole body. He began to withdraw, his grip on her loosening, his invasion
becoming shallower. He finished the kiss with a small caress of his mouth, and slowly
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drew away from her. His eyes opened and she saw sparks in the depths of the soft green.
“Well,” he breathed. She echoed the sentiment, but said nothing, staring up at him as if
transfixed. She couldn’t have moved if the house was on fire.
When his grip on her loosened, Perdita was forced to use her own muscles again.
Testing her steadiness by pressing her foot hard to the ground, she regained her balance.
She was used to testing herself in this way; it was almost second nature. She leaned back
and looked up at him. Was she looking as bewildered as he was? His eyes were clouded
with an emotion she interpreted as confusion. She forced a smile. “I’m sorry. I haven’t
kissed too many men.”
He grasped the light tone like a lifeline. “You’re delicious, Peri.”
“What did you call me?”
She couldn’t tell if he’d blushed. “My turn to apologise. My private name for you. A
peri is a Persian fairy. It seemed to fit you. You’re so ethereal, with your fair hair and
your fine-boned body. It’s as though any moment you’ll float into the air and be lost
forever.”
She liked that. “And my name is Perdita.”
“Probably why the epithet came to mind.” His hands slid around her waist. “Thank
you. Do you think our relatives are right? Are we attracted to each other? Will we have to
go to them cap in hand and admit it?”
She forced a laugh and shook her head. “Far too soon to tell.”
“Not with kisses like those. Where will you be this summer, after the visit to your
aunt?”
Perdita frowned, reminded of her resolve to keep him at arm’s length. So much for
that resolution! But she would not allow a swift courtship, not with the problem of Aimée
so fresh in her mind. Too many people made mistakes that way, not knowing each other
properly first. She wanted a rewarding and long lasting union. Love was wonderful, but
as she knew to her cost, not an emotion to base a lifetime’s relationship on. She needed
friendship and a meeting of minds. She didn’t know him well enough, she reminded
herself, as he bent for another kiss.
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This was quieter, and didn’t last as long, but Perdita felt the same subsuming of
herself in him, as though he absorbed her within him. A feeling she wasn’t at all sure
about. When he drew back this time, she was more in control of herself. “I think we’ve
gone beyond farewell kisses,” she said, pulling away.
He sighed. “You’re probably right.”
Going to the window, she stared out over the carefully tended drive. “I plan to stay at
my aunt’s, a private visit to Cumbria. This is my first full season since my accident, and I
need the rest.” Before he could express his concern, she continued. “Then I should be
going with my mother to a house-party at Blyth Court, for a small gathering to celebrate
the end of Violetta’s confinement and her churching.” She heard a small sound of
satisfaction, a quiet purr, and, feeling more in control of herself, turned to face him. “Will
you be there?”
“Blyth Court is close to my own estate in Somerset. I believe I’ve been invited,” he
said. “If you are going, I’ll certainly make an appearance.” His smile was too intimate for
her liking. Perdita felt the walls closing in on her, and knew herself for a fool. She
wouldn’t allow anyone to control her life, not now. She’d felt this before, and in that
case, it proved correct.
He didn’t attempt to move closer to her, but looked at her face steadily. “Would you
come to dinner at my house tomorrow night with your parents? I would love to see you
once more before you leave. Will you?”
“People are talking already. I don’t want to be pressured into anything.”
“Very well.” He reached for her hand and kissed the back with a courtly gesture.
Then he turned it over and curved her hand into his, pressing a kiss into the palm.
“Sweet,” he murmured. With a brusque motion, he moved to the door. “We’ve been gone
long enough. You go first, and I’ll follow in a few minutes.” Perdita nodded and walked
past him, casting a glance up at his face when he opened the door and held it for her. It
was almost her undoing. His smile was so warm she wanted nothing more than to close
the door again and stay there with him.
It would not do. Holding to her resolve, she left, with a soft smile in his direction.
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Met By Chance
Chapter Four
Charles wondered what on earth he was doing. He liked Lady Perdita, but events
were moving too fast, out of his control. He prided himself on his self-control but their
kisses were too much, and he had almost taken events even further. He desperately
needed distance so he could think rationally, so he heard her confession that she was to
spend a quiet month with her aunt with relief.
Time, he needed time. Lady Perdita wasn’t the woman he could seduce and then
walk away from, she was the marriageable kind and Charles wasn’t at all sure he wanted
to go in that direction again. At least, not yet. One day he’d have to marry to provide an
heir, but he’d planned this as the business arrangement most society marriages turned out
to be. He had his daughter, and he wanted nothing else, no one else to love. Or so he had
thought.
Now, watching Lady Perdita flirt with a gentleman, he wasn’t quite so sure. An
irrational desire to rip her away from the man’s side, to keep her all for himself, rocked
him with its intensity. What could have come over him? He wanted her, yes, but there
was more to his feelings about her. An unaccountable desire to care for her, to shelter her.
She’d faced a lot of life’s problems and done it head-on, but he wanted to shelter her
from any more.
Foolish. He tried to put the notion aside, but it haunted him. Until he saw Millicent
flirting with Berrington.
It was outrageous. Perdita’s flirting had been harmless, a wave of her fan, a slanted
smile, but Millicent’s was obvious and shaming. From his investigations into Berrington,
he seemed to be a man of respectable title and fortune, although Charles privately hoped
Berrington would be an out-and-out fortune hunter, so he could dismiss him without a
qualm. But he hadn’t missed Perdita’s reaction to the man in the park, and while he
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hadn’t asked her about him, he found her nervousness in Berrington’s presence
disturbing. He should ask her.
Striding over to the arbour, where Millicent had spent the last hour with her suitor,
Charles kept his expression to a tight, controlled cordiality. His brief bow was the barest
greeting he could make the man without being downright rude. “Millicent, will you walk
with me, my dear?”
He didn’t miss the fond glance she cast Berrington before she stood up and laid her
hand on his arm. His mouth tightened in disapproval. They were barely out of earshot
before he said, “Millicent, I would rather you didn’t show Berrington too much favour.
You don’t want to ruin your chances with other men.”
Millicent stuck her nose in the air. “I don’t care. I should tell you that Conrad plans
to ask you for a private meeting soon.”
“I’m glad he has at least that concern for the proprieties.” Charles felt much as King
Canute did when the sea was coming in. “Has he asked you to marry him?”
“He’s asked if he may pay his addresses. He’s a gentleman, Charles, he knows what
to do.”
“Hmm. Well until he has seen me, I don’t want people to gossip. Spend some time
with other people. Shall I take you to Lady Perdita?”
To his surprise, Millicent made a face. “No, not her, Charles. Conrad told me some
things about her I don’t particularly like.”
“Really?” Charles’s heart sank. He didn’t want to hear gossip, and the daughter of
the notorious Triple Countess must be subject to quite a lot of it.
“Indeed, and most of it only confirmed what I’d heard. Did you know she was caught
in flagrante last year—with a woman?”
Charles’s memory flew back to their kiss. Not possible, he assured himself. Not her,
not Perdita.
“It was the talk of the town. With her friend, Lady Judith Wayland.”
“Ripley’s daughter?”
“Do you know him?”
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“Yes.” Charles had met the Marquess of Ripley in France. The marquess lived
openly with his mistress, a notorious courtesan, although retired these days. To do Ripley
justice, he found the woman utterly charming and they seemed devoted to each other.
Ripley’s wife and daughter lived in England, but the breach was permanent.
Millicent grinned saucily. “Lady Judith wants to return to society. She will, too. But
no one will forget what she did. The rumour was that she and Lady Perdita were lovers of
long standing, but discovering them together drove a breach between them that never
healed. Lady Perdita spent over a year convalescing from her accident, and she would see
no one but Lady Judith, outside her family.”
Charles made a sound of interest. Not too much interest. Perhaps instead of
investigating Berrington he should have been investigating Lady Perdita.
Not again. Never again. While he had no objection to a woman taking lovers, male
or female, he could not bear any woman of his doing so. He had sworn it and he would
keep to it.
Enquiry confirmed what Millicent told him. Never desirous of taking one person’s
word, he went to the coffee houses the next day, and invited gossip about the Triple
Countess and her offspring, particularly the Earl of Blyth and his sister. It seemed the earl
married a beautiful Italian lady and was at present rusticating, caring for his wife, who
was recovering from bearing her lord his heir. When people counted on their fingers, it
became clear that the child must have been conceived very close to the marriage. But
many people anticipated the wedding by a few weeks, so that in itself wasn’t too
reprehensible.
At the same house party where the earl met his wife-to-be, some scandal ensued
between his sister and her close friend Judith Wayland. Just before Lady Judith’s father,
Ripley, eloped with his lady-love, Judith was found in a compromising position with
Lady Perdita. It was supposed to be secret, but these things had a habit of getting out.
Lady Perdita was unaware the gossip even existed, but it was discussed, sometimes with
gut-twistingly leering detail.
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Charles knew better than to believe everything he heard, but the facts existed. With a
heavy heart, he decided to cool down. He couldn’t pursue Lady Perdita unless he knew
the facts for sure. He would ask her. Hear her side.
When he arrived back at his house, looking forward to an hour or two with Aimée he
found Berrington waiting for him. Concealing his sigh, he led the way to his study.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked, handing the man a drink.
He couldn’t like Berrington, but he found nothing untoward in his background
except a fondness for female company. Berrington was seen in the company of quite a
few women, not all of them respectable, and some of them notorious for their affairs. It
was the only weapon he had to use against the man he instinctively disliked.
As he expected, Berrington asked for his permission to address his sister. “It seems
awkward, asking a man much my own age,” he said with a deprecating smile, “but I am
right in addressing you, am I not?”
“Indeed you are,” Charles replied smoothly. “I am her guardian. Our father died
some years ago. I spent some time away, but I’ve always kept a close eye on family
matters. What can you offer Millicent?”
Charles patiently listened to a recitation of houses, income and pin money.
Berrington wasn’t as wealthy as he, but few people were. Berrington could support
Millicent in comfort. But would he make her happy? Charles moved to the table where
several decanters twinkled in the sunshine coming through the window. “Brandy, wine?”
“A small glass of claret wouldn’t come amiss,” Berrington replied. Charles obliged
and carried both glasses over.
Sipping his wine, Charles said, as casually as he could muster, “Do you love her?”
Berrington laughed outright. “Indeed I do. I don’t need to marry for an heir, or for a
fortune. What other reason could there be?”
What indeed? “I’ve heard of your prowess with women.”
No laughter this time. Berrington shot him a guarded glance. “That will end, I can
assure you. No one has charmed me as much as your sister and I fear no one will.”
“Very touching. What of Lady Pershore?”
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Berrington winced. Lady Pershore was a famous exponent of a certain kind of sexual
practice. The wince told Charles what he wanted to know. “A short union, but too long
for me,” Berrington admitted. He got to his feet and looked Charles straight in the eye. “I
won’t deny I’ve been fond of the ladies, but if you do me the honour of allowing me to
address Millicent, all that will be over. I swear it.”
Charles believed him. He gave his permission, although with a heavy heart. His aunt,
when he went upstairs to see her in the sitting-room, was delighted, but not as delighted
as Millicent. “May we announce it tonight, Charles? May we?”
Smiling, he gave his consent. “Make it clear the legal matters need to be arranged,
but if they go well, there should be no impediment.”
Millicent couldn’t contain her happiness, but when he sent her down to her betrothed
he warned her, “Make him wait. Don’t give him everything all at once.”
It was all he could do, but when they met at the ball later in the day Millicent
couldn’t prevent her partiality showing. She held Berrington’s arm like a woman holding
on to a particularly fine piece of jewellery, gently but securely, with no intention of
letting go. Before half an hour passed, word got around; Berrington had netted
Petherbridge’s sister. Charles could hear the speculation, almost see people counting
sovereigns as they congratulated the couple. Millicent would have a generous dowry.
When Charles first caught sight of Lady Perdita, his heart missed a beat. She was
ethereally lovely, in palest blue embroidered with fine designs in silver. Her hair, already
so pale, was unpowdered, so it shone in the light of the thousand candles lighting the
ballroom to brilliance. She wore pearls discreetly enhanced with small diamonds, a
choker high around her slender neck, a bracelet clasped tightly around her wrist, small
pendants suspended from her ears. A fairy indeed.
As she came closer, he noticed her face was tightly drawn, paler than usual.
Something was wrong. He tried to hide his concern from the watching ton, avid to see if
there might be another wedding in his family soon.
They were friends, he reminded himself. No more. Not yet. But friends were
concerned for each other, and she concerned him now. Although he burned to take her
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somewhere quiet and discover what was wrong he had no opportunity to do so. They
were a marked couple, and even if they stepped outside to take the air they would be
watched, and perhaps followed. All he could do was to request a visit. During a moment
of intimacy in the minuet he murmured, “I can see something is wrong, don’t deny it.
May I call on you in the morning?”
“No.” They had to break apart while he bowed and she curtseyed. “I wish to talk to
you in private. I’ll meet you at Johnson and Carter’s bookshop at eleven. You know it?”
“Yes. It’s by St. Paul’s isn’t it?”
She bowed her head in response.
That was the only contact he had with her that night. She kept away from him, and
surrounded herself with her family. She looked tired, and he was concerned about her.
She looked more ethereal than usual. Perhaps her legs pained her more than she allowed
it to be known. He wouldn’t have been surprised. A rod of steel ran through Lady
Perdita’s slender body. A thought flashed through his mind, that he would like to become
the rod of steel in her body, and he pushed it aside. Too soon, too soon. It didn’t help.
He slept poorly that night, thinking what it would be like to hold a slender body in
his arms, glowing with passion and desire.
“They’re talking about us.”
“Quite obsessively.” Now he knew why she’d chosen that particular bookshop. It
was small, but had a number of small alcoves where a customer could browse at his
leisure. They sat in one of the alcoves, well out of sight of the front door or the windows
on two of the hard-backed chairs provided for customers. “Is that why you avoided me
last night?”
“Yes.” She said that too quickly, he thought.
“It didn’t hamper you. You danced with every man in the room.”
“Jealous?”
“Have I the right to be?”
“No.” That answer was immediate, and filled him with sinking doubt.
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“I was jealous anyway.” His warm smile was met by a tense look. “Why did you
want to talk to me?” He wanted it over with. This small space smothered him, and his
breath came shallower.
“Berrington,” she said tersely. When she said the single word, the muscles near her
mouth tightened and her forehead creased in two sharp lines between her brows. “He
wants to court your sister, doesn’t he?”
He leaned back, willing to indulge her only so far. “He has declared his interest.”
“He is not a suitable husband for her. For anyone.”
“Why not?”
She swallowed. “He has no money.” There was something else, he knew there was
from her guarded expression.
He lifted his brows. “I’ve investigated his circumstances. So far the reports are
entirely satisfactory.”
She stared at him, her blue eyes cold. “He is not a pleasant person.”
That reminded him of what her sister had told him of Lady Perdita’s propensities.
“So few of us are completely pleasant, don’t you agree?”
Her eyes narrowed. She was no fool; she knew the remark wasn’t a casual one.
“What have you heard?”
“What I was bound to hear, if I showed an interest in you. Tell me, Lady Perdita, do
you consider an affair with another woman to be an infidelity, or is it just a close
friendship?”
She stared at him, her eyes turning to points of blue ice. “I see.” Getting to her feet,
she shook out her skirts, and then held her hand out to ward him off when he rose. “I
enjoyed our flirtation, sir. I may see you at Blyth Court later in the summer, but I’m not
counting on it. Good day.”
Charles knew a dismissal when he heard it. He bowed, as low as he could in this
small space, his heart heavy in his chest, and watched her leave. He still felt a link with
her, but he could not accept infidelity in his second marriage if he cared about his wife.
Not again. Never again.
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He would try to forget he ever knew Lady Perdita Garland.
Perdita didn’t allow herself the luxury of tears until back in her carriage, the
unmarked one she’d left at the end of the street. She had foolishly allowed herself to
indulge in a lovely dream, that was all. However, he had heard of the incident last year,
and she couldn’t explain to him why she’d done it. Not yet. It involved more people than
just Perdita alone, and it would not do to share intimate family secrets on such short
acquaintance.
She wished she could tell him, though. She wanted him to look at her again the way
he had just before he kissed her the last time, with a mixture of tenderness and raw,
aching hunger. It reached something inside her she’d been unaware of before, even with
that cad Berrington.
Of course! That was where he heard the story of Lady Judith Wayland. Berrington
would not hesitate to cast any slurs on her he could, just to keep her from telling
Petherbridge the truth about him. It seemed he’d succeeded. She bit her lip, fuming. If he
got away with it, he’d win, and probably ruin a young girl’s life in the process. Perdita
promised herself she would try once more.
When she arrived home, she went to her room and wrote the letter to Petherbridge,
while her courage was still up. After sending it, she went to find her mother.
Lady Taversall was sitting in the small salon with her feet propped up on a footstool,
using the bright light streaming into the room to indulge in her passion for fine
embroidery. When Perdita entered the room, her mother smiled welcomingly and pushed
the frame to one side. Perdita studied at the work on its tambour frame, an elaborate
confection of flowers and seashells, beautifully wrought. She heard the click as her
mother put her spectacles on the side table and then the tinkle of the handbell. A servant
entered the room, bringing a tea tray with her. “You do such wonderful work, Mama. Has
this a place ready for it?”
“I thought to do matching chair covers for the dining room,” her mother said. Tea
dishes clinked, followed by the welcoming sound of liquid pouring from the teapot.
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“There are twelve chairs, Mama! Do you mean to do this design for all of them?”
“I was thinking of it.”
Perdita sat down and smiled brief thanks to the maid who put the dish and saucer on
the table next to the small sofa. “Won’t you be bored doing twelve the same?”
Her mother laughed. “I suppose I would, if I meant to do them all. No, I shall
embroider this one as a pattern and send the work out to the professionals. Once I would
have cobbled a simple design together just to cover worn patches. It’s a pleasure to be
able to do something so fine.”
Perdita had taken up the art more seriously when she’d secluded herself from
society, but she didn’t really want to get into a discussion on the merits of silk floss and
swirling designs now. “I want to go to Aunt Grace’s soon, Mama. Perhaps bring the visit
forward a little.”
Her mother looked up sharply. “What’s wrong?”
Perdita knew better than to try to dissemble. It never worked, not with Lady
Taversall. She stared down at her hands, tightly clasped on her lap. “It won’t work with
Petherbridge, Mama.”
“Oh, Perdita!”
She looked up, smiling. She’d never worked so hard before to hide her feelings from
her mother. “It doesn’t matter. I like him, but it didn’t go any further than that.” Apart
from those strange feelings of wanting he drew from her. “He heard about Lady Judith.
His sister is seeing Berrington, and I suppose he heard it through him.”
Lady Taversall made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Well if he allowed that man
to influence him, I can’t see that he’s worth having!”
“I don’t think he relied on Berrington for his sources. I tried to warn him off
Berrington, but I fear I didn’t have any effect.”
Her mother’s gaze sharpened, her blue eyes hardened into sharp points. “Did you tell
him?”
Lady Taversall was the only other person in the world who knew the truth, why
Perdita had suffered such a severe accident. Even she didn’t know it all. Just that
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Berrington cruelly rejected her, and Perdita had ridden the fiercest horse in the stables
when she’d been too overwrought to control him. “No. I just told him Berrington was a
fortune hunter.”
Lady Taversall pursed her lips. “You know he conceals that. You should have told
him how. There’s no doubt he will be chasing Lady Millicent for her fortune. She’s an
annoying chit, but no one deserves that man around her neck for the rest of her life.”
“I’ve just written to Petherbridge, trying to tell him what I couldn’t tell him directly.”
Perdita picked up her tea dish and took a sip of the scalding liquid. The mundane action
soothed her agitated spirits. “I don’t expect a reply. So there is no need for me to stay any
longer. Is it possible for me to go soon? I can write to Aunt Grace today, and set off in a
day or two.”
“Unchaperoned?”
Perdita frowned. “Do I really need one?” Then she had a brainwave. “The
Devonshires are leaving for Chatsworth on Monday, Lord Hartington told me at the ball
last night. I could go with them.”
“That will only take you to Derbyshire. I planned to accompany you myself, but I’m
tied up for the next few days. Are you sure you can’t wait?”
“I would prefer not to.”
Lady Taversall leaned her head back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling.
Perdita sipped her tea. Eventually, her ladyship sighed heavily, took her gaze off the
plaster cherubs back to her daughter. “There’s always your Aunt Charlotte.”
Perdita shuddered, but quelled her immediate repulsion. Aunt Charlotte, Lady Smith,
lived in Preston, in a dark, dismal house that always smelled of cabbage, as did everyone
who lived there for any length of time.
“You could stay overnight at Chatsworth, and then leave early the next morning for
Preston. You should get there in a day, if the roads are good. If they’re not, you may stay
with the Wrights.” Another shudder, but it would only be a night, Perdita reminded
herself. The Reverend Timothy Wright was a cousin of Lord Taversall’s, currently
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enjoying a living in Matlock Bath. “Aunt Charlotte will accompany you to Aunt Grace’s,
if I ask her. Would you like me to come with you?”
Perdita smiled, and shook her head. “You’ve been looking forward to visiting Daniel
and Miranda, and I know you, Mama, you’ll be off to visit your new grandchild on any
excuse! I will see you and Orlando there, and I promise to bring Aunt Grace with me.”
That had been the original reason for her visit—to accompany her aunt to Blyth Court,
where Orlando, Violetta and their new baby were holding their first house party since the
baby was born. Perdita also knew this was her mother’s way of handing her more
independence. The necessity for chaperones still existed, but soon Perdita hoped she
would have even more freedom. Perhaps she would employ a woman to accompany her.
It would be far more convenient than this grubbing around for available relatives.
The sooner she reached the Lake District, the better. “I’ll leave tomorrow, and write
to you as soon as I get there,” she promised.
“I know you will, dear.” Lady Taversall reached for her embroidery again, pulling it
over to stand in front of her. The frame was designed by the estate carpenter, and
presented to her by her eldest son Daniel, Lord Rosington. It was an exquisite creation,
carved with flowers and twining branches, rolling smoothly on little castors which could
be locked by a catch on the left of the frame, to prevent the frame moving while Lady
Taversall was working on it. It went everywhere with her. The needle flashed between
her hands, pushed from top to bottom and back again in quick, sure movements. Perdita
admired her mother’s skill in both design and execution. Embroidery could be a work of
art when performed as well as this.
She poured them both another dish of tea and returned to her chair, enjoying the
peace. Distant sounds from the busy street outside reached them only dimly, at the back
of the house. They could almost be in the country. Almost.
Perdita was weary. Her first season since her illness had been a strain, but it was
over. The aborted relationship with Lord Petherbridge was a symptom of her tiredness,
and it was over, too. Next year, if she didn’t find a man she liked enough to marry, and
who liked her, she would think of setting up her own establishment, and enter on the new
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career of old maid. She didn’t mind too much. Not now she had enough money to make
her life comfortable.
She was lying to herself. She knew it even as she dreamed.
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Chapter Five
Charles stared at the paper in front of him, making sense of the rows of figures.
Damn, but Collins was right! His man of business had done some work at his request, and
the figures he’d underlined in red made the actions of the scoundrel as clear as if they
were written in one column.
He sighed and lifted his hand to his forehead, dislodging the fashionable wig to
expose the tight curls of dark hair beneath. He tunnelled his fingers into the curls,
heedless of his wig, which fell with a soft plop and a flurry of rice powder to land in a
thud on the floor. He cursed softly. Now it had been pointed out to him he didn’t know
how he’d missed it, but it was there.
And he had Lady Perdita to thank. Had it not been for her letter, delivered by hand
the day before, he’d never have noticed Berrington’s clever manipulation of the small
amount of money he owned. She pointed him in the right direction and he owed her more
than an apology for that.
He had to apologise to her. His investigations had also revealed that the so-called
affair with Lady Judith Wayland was an attempted rape by Lady Judith on Perdita.
Perdita’s response when he’d accused her of the affair had been admirably restrained. He
put his head in his hands and groaned, loud and long. His own foolishness might have
lost him any chance with a woman he found very attractive, the first he’d taken an
interest in for years. And he only had himself to blame.
He put the paper down and reached for the handbell. When the footman came, he
requested Millicent’s presence.
This was not going to be easy. While he waited, he went to the mirror and resettled
the wig. He made a small adjustment and then went back to his chair. He would need all
the armour he could muster in the next few moments.
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To his relief his aunt accompanied his sister into the room. Aunt Maria was not
Charles’s favourite person but she might prove an ally. Charles could only hope so.
He stood while the footman helped both ladies into chairs, then he nodded at the man
to leave them alone. He took his seat at his aunt’s small nod of permission and picked up
the paper. “This is not news you will wish to hear,” he said to his sister. “I’m sorry for it,
but it’s better we discovered it. It seems Lord Berrington isn’t as well off as he led us to
suppose. In fact, he’s nearly penniless.”
His mind went to the injustice he had done to Lady Perdita. He wanted to be away
from here and with her, to apologise. And to see her again. He’d missed her with an
absurd strength of feeling.
Millicent gasped. “It’s not true. He always dresses beautifully, and he is never short
of ready money!”
“It’s the stock in trade of fortune hunters,” Charles said, feeling a pang of sadness for
his pretty sister. “They must put up a show to attract the prey they need.” He regretted
using that combination of words when he saw his sister stiffen. “He is cleverer than most.
He is using the same sum of money and moving it around his accounts. So one day it
shows up in his estate, and another in his city investments, and then he might use it in
town. It appears to be different sums, and it takes close attention to details to spot the
movements.”
“How did you discover it?” That was his aunt, not quite as surprised as Millicent, he
noted. “Please, Millicent, if you open your mouth much further, you’ll catch flies.”
Millicent closed her mouth with a snap.
“I had some information delivered by letter yesterday, and I sent for Collins. We
went into the matter further. Since the accounts don’t go back very far, it all looks
acceptable—until one looks deeper.” He turned to Millicent with a regretful sigh. “I’m
sorry, my dear, but there is no doubt. I hoped to wish you happy before the year was out,
but I cannot give my permission for this particular match. Berrington deliberately
deceived us in this. Had he come to me with the truth, I might have been more
sympathetic, but he did not.”
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He kept a steely control over his emotions. Inside he was seething, but it would do
Millicent no good to see his antagonism towards her erstwhile suitor. He looked forward
to an interview with Berrington in the near future.
“But I love him!” Millicent’s cry came from the heart, but he could do nothing in
that regard. She didn’t trust him with her feelings, something he couldn’t blame her for as
he’d spent much of her life elsewhere.
“Are you sure?” His aunt’s voice was low, but firm. “Without a doubt?”
“Without a doubt, ma’am. I have tried explaining the figures another way, but it will
not do.”
“P-perhaps you are wrong?” Millicent ventured. He saw she was fighting back tears,
her eyes unnaturally bright, her face set into rigid lines.
“The figures leave us in no doubt. Perhaps we were supposed to glance at them, but
where my family’s welfare is at stake, I am a little more careful than that.” He should
have been more careful still and not given Berrington his permission in the first place.
However, he could stop it before permanent damage was done.
“So why did you spend all that time in France?” Millicent’s voice gained a sneering
tone.
“I came back every year, and I was careful to oversee all decisions. Other matters
kept me in France, not least my wife’s possessions.” He tried to be patient with Millicent.
He wasn’t so old that he couldn’t remember the devastation of first love, the way it
subsumed every other concern.
“Millicent, your brother never neglected his duties. However I might deplore his
French sojourn, we never suffered for it.” Charles heard his aunt with relief. She’d
decided to weigh in on his side and he was grateful for her support. After his parents’
deaths, Aunt Maria had arrived to take care of Millicent, and she was probably closer to
his sister than anyone else.
Millicent’s lower lip trembled. “I don’t care! I have enough money for both of us. I
want him anyway. Charles, do not do this to me!”
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He spread his hands wide. “I didn’t do this. He did. I’m sorry, Millicent. I won’t
permit you to marry him. His deception doesn’t give me a good opinion of his character.”
Millicent indulged in a fit of strong hysterics. Torn between wanting to shake some
sense into her and holding her to comfort her, Charles did neither. He decided absence
was his best tactic. He met his aunt’s gaze, and she jerked her head towards the door. He
needed no other prompt. He stood up, bowed to them both and left the room in a few
quick strides.
Lady Perdita was out—at least she was out to him. No amount of persuasion or gold
could change the butler’s mind, so Charles was forced to go on to Berrington’s house
without her presence. He would have found her company soothing, and now he knew the
worst, the apology he should make burned through him. He would write to her. Even if
she chose never to receive him again—and he couldn’t blame her for that—he had to
apologise to her.
Accordingly, before he left the town house, he left her a note, hoping that she would
at least read it before she left for her trip north. His visit to Blyth Court would have to be
strategically planned, in case she found it impossible to forgive him. He did not want to
make her uncomfortable, but he desperately wanted to see her again.
He plied the smart doorknocker outside Berrington’s house, and a respectable
looking butler admitted him. Entering Berrington’s study, he was greeted by the man
himself, all smiles. Petherbridge felt a savage pleasure at the thought of wiping the smile
off his face. Perhaps he might have the pleasure of doing it physically.
It wasn’t to be. Berrington listened, then after Charles made it perfectly clear he
knew exactly what he was doing, he shrugged. Charles’s blood temperature rose. “I’m
sorry. I am short of funds, albeit temporary, and I thought it would be easier if you didn’t
know of it.”
“I don’t think your shortage of funds is temporary,” Charles said as coolly as he
could manage.
Berrington’s dark eyes narrowed. “Who could have told you that, I wonder?”
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Too late, Charles realised he had unwittingly involved Lady Perdita. “My man of
business and I worked it out for ourselves. It wasn’t difficult.”
“It should have been. It took Lord Blyth longer.”
Blyth had recovered his family fortune by business dealings, so he was no fool when
it came to accounting. Perhaps Berrington had more money to play with then, or perhaps
Blyth had been distracted. Charles would like a long talk with Lady Perdita’s brother, and
not only because of Berrington.
“Then you admit you are in permanent financial difficulties?”
Berrington leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked. “Not at all. Merely that my
investments make me low on cash from time to time.”
“You wanted my sister for her money?”
“Not only that.” Charles watched the face opposite him straighten, become clearer,
and in that moment, he knew Berrington was lying. If there was any chance at all that
Berrington’s feelings for Millicent were sincere, he might have let the matter drop
quietly, or even given the man a second chance.
“Perdita told you, didn’t she? Jealous little whore.”
If he hadn’t been feeling so guilty and miserable over the injustice he’d done a
woman he was strongly attracted to, he might not have allowed his fury to control his
actions now.
He stood and leaned across the table, swiping Berrington across the face. The blow
was open handed, but strong enough to knock the man off his chair. “Name your
seconds,” he said, low voiced.
“Sir!” Berrington scrambled to his feet. “Is there really any need for this?”
“Yes.” Tremendous relief flowed through Charles, like a tide released to surge
forward. He would spend the rest of the day spreading the rumour that it was another
lady, not his Lady Perdita, who was the subject of the duel, though in his heart he would
do it for her. “I’ll send someone to call on you,” he snapped, and turned on his heel. “A
demain.”
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Charles slept badly that night. He’d put his affairs in order, but he had no great
expectation of being slaughtered in the morning. His second had been instructed to
inform anyone that the affair of honour was over La Perla, a notorious courtesan, and the
second of that name, not any respectable female. Certain people would be aware of the
true reason, but he trusted them not to make their suspicions public.
Once he’d settled into bed, early for a change, he found he was restless, not able to
settle. Perhaps the prospect of possible death and probable injury sharpened his mind to
concentrate on matters of most importance to him, and he found himself going over his
meetings with Lady Perdita Garland, wondering what it was that hurt her so badly, and
why she rejected him so thoroughly.
He was guiltily aware that he spoiled Aimée, and more aware that Lady Perdita
hadn’t appreciated it. She was right. The child would suffer if he didn’t impose some
discipline on her soon. He adored her, the only good thing to come out of his marriage,
but if he weren’t careful, she would become the image of her mother in more than looks.
Francine had been spoiled, self indulgent and spiteful, taking Charles because she could,
not because she loved him. He adored the worldly, fashionable comtesse, but she took
him with cold calculation, amused herself with his heartfelt passion. It hadn’t taken long
for him to see through the sparkling exterior to the empty interior, but by then it was too
late. His parents were dead, and his guardians, cold, financially minded men, were
delighted to see him add to his fortune. He’d been married off before he was twenty, and
forced to face a future empty of love. Until Aimée arrived, the result of a final attempt at
reconciliation between husband and wife.
Lying on his back, his hands tucked under his head Charles remembered how
beautiful Francine was—in her paint. He mentally traced the contours of her face, and
saw them again in his daughter. She was his daughter, he was sure of it. A month
confined to the hôtel with a severe head cold and his heartfelt pleas for an heir drove
Francine back to his bed, and in that month, Aimée was conceived. Francine never
allowed him near her again, declaring he’d taken advantage of her. It finally killed
whatever they had at the start of their ill-fated marriage.
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A sound downstairs alerted Charles, and he sat up, groping for his robe. His aunt and
sister had both decided on an early night, so there should be no one using the front door
but he distinctly heard it close, quiet though the sound was.
He strode to his bedroom door, cinching the robe around his waist and hurried
downstairs. His mood wasn’t improved when he discovered the bolts shot back, and the
door unlocked.
Turning, he saw the hall boy stumbling back to his pallet at the end of the hall.
“Where were you?”
“I—I had to use the privy, my lord. I’m sorry.”
“Someone used this door just now. Did you see anyone?”
The boy, who looked very young in his nightshirt and cap, shook his head. “We have
a new maid, my lord. Mr. Crawley did say she wouldn’t last long. Perhaps she decided to
go before she was dismissed.”
“And using the front door as a gesture of spite.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Charles shrugged, knowing his edginess wasn’t usual. “Very well. Secure the door
and we’ll say no more about the matter.”
He saw relief flood the boy’s face. “Yes, my lord. Sorry, my lord.”
He went back upstairs and settled in bed. This time he slept.
Although he did his best to keep matters quiet, Charles was disturbed to find several
people waiting to see the duel. He kept the meeting light, joking with some of the people
he knew, making a comment that the lady almost expected such a test for her favours. No
one seemed to suspect he was meeting Berrington over his sister’s honour. Or that Lady
Perdita had anything to do with the affair.
After half an hour watching a wonderful sunrise, it also dawned on the assembled
company that Berrington wasn’t going to turn up. An hour later everyone agreed Charles
won the encounter by default.
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Charles was disappointed. He would have enjoyed taking out his pent-up feelings on
someone and Berrington seemed to be the cause of most of them. The story would be all
around the coffee houses by lunchtime without his efforts, so he thanked his seconds and
set out for home.
He was in no better mood when he arrived back at his house. His front door lay open,
but since he was rarely up at this time of the day in town he had no idea if this was
normal or not.
What was not normal was his aunt, in what was for her a state of disarray, standing
in the hall, wringing her hands. Her face flooded with relief when she saw him.
“Who told you?” Charles demanded, determined that whoever told his aunt about the
duel would be dismissed.
“My maid. She brought the news that Millicent’s bed hasn’t been slept in. Have you
found her? Have you brought them back?”
Not the duel, then. Charles groped for understanding, his mind still fully with the
aborted encounter. “Millicent? No, I—er—went out for some air. What has happened,
Aunt Maria? Calm yourself, try to tell me.”
For answer, Aunt Maria shoved a scrap of paper at him. Her fingers trembled as she
passed it. Charles glanced at her and took the note.
Dear Aunt,
I am forbidden to marry Lord Berrington. I cannot bear it; I will not give him up.
There is no reason to do so. I know he isn’t as rich as Charles, but he has some money,
enough for us to make a new start.
I regret telling you in such a way, but I cannot think of any other way out. I have run
away with Conrad. We will be happy, and I promise to write to you as soon as we have
tied the knot. Please do not worry about me. Conrad will take very good care of me.
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Charles glanced around. The butler hovered in the background, and while he
watched, a maid scurried across the hall in the direction of the breakfast room. He sighed.
“Have you not heard of discretion? This will not remain secret for long.”
His aunt waved in the direction of the servants. “We can order them not to tell.”
Charles caught his breath at her naïveté. “At this time of the morning, tradesmen will
have come and gone. How long do you think it will take?”
He dropped the letter to the floor and strode to the front door, kicking it shut with a
slam that did little to assuage his rising temper. Now he knew why Berrington didn’t
appear at the appointment this morning. He was probably halfway up the Great North
Road.
He turned back to face his aunt. “There’s no point racing after them. Millicent’s only
chance at respectability is to marry Berrington, so we might as well leave them to it. I
shall call on my man of business. I want to see him immediately, and the only way I can
do it is to go to him. Don’t say anything to confirm or deny the rumours, and don’t be at
home to anyone. Try to stop the servants talking, though that might be a lost cause. But
do your best.”
“Wh-what will you do?”
He stopped and faced her. Her thin face was drawn with worry, worse than he’d ever
seen her. “I will make sure Berrington cannot touch Millicent’s money,” he said. “I’ll
initiate a trust. Millicent won’t starve, neither will her children, but Berrington won’t be
able to use the capital.”
It made her even more worried. “Do you think there is cause to worry that much?”
“Yes.” There was no way he could mitigate the information. “Berrington has very
little of his own. It’s highly likely he persuaded Millicent to elope because I warned him
off yesterday.”
To her credit, his aunt did not poker up at him. He’d handled this whole affair badly.
The realisation did nothing for his temper. Afraid he would lash out at someone who
didn’t deserve it, he swung around and abruptly left the house.
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An hour later Charles was home again. Certain he’d done what he could in the
circumstances, his mind calmed. Discussing dry financial concerns had done much to
settle his mind. His sister was foolish, but they could brush through it. Berrington would
have a shock in store if he thought he could depend on the generosity of his new brother
in law, or even to borrow on the strength of his new relatives.
Charles was prepared to free him of his mortgage, to give Millicent somewhere to
live, and to pay Berrington’s immediate debts. Any more than that and he was on his
own. He didn’t want to cause his aunt or his sister distress, but he would not beggar
himself on their account.
Feeling a great deal more cheerful, he entered a house that seemed much more its
usual self. Servants went about their business, adding to the air of normality. He could
perhaps spare his daughter an hour or more. It would be his pleasure. She was his delight,
his joy, and likely to be his only one.
Charles ascended the staircase only to be met by his white-faced aunt. Inwardly
sighing he allowed her to lead him into the drawing room. “I have done what I can.”
“They found this in the fireplace. It’s unusual for anyone to light a fire at this time of
year, so the maid thought to bring me this.”
She took him to a side table, where a charred piece of paper was carefully laid out.
There wasn’t much left, just a few words. The charred remains of a letter, written in a
hand Charles didn’t know.
Dearest he read. Forever mine. Midnight. There the words stopped, and a solitary
scrap of burned paper added, Liverp—
The runaways were headed for Liverpool. Charles had assumed they would go
straight to the Border, where they could be married under Scottish custom, but from these
fragments, it appeared unlikely.
Midnight must have been the time he heard the front door slam. Charles swallowed
when he realised the significance of the incident. Millicent must have waited until the
hall boy left to use the privy, then slipped downstairs and let herself out. If Charles had
pursued the matter, he could have prevented this whole fiasco. He was not such a fool as
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to make himself a martyr in this business, but it would undoubtedly have prevented a
great deal of unhappiness and upset.
“You will go after them?” His aunt stared at him, with a distress Charles found it
hard to meet. He had never been close to his aunt, but he would have done a great deal to
spare her this. She must be going through hell.
He reached out and covered her hand with his. “There isn’t much point,” he said, as
gently as he could manage. “If I catch them, Millicent’s reputation is still ruined. The best
we can hope for is that he marries her. If he does not, I will have to make him.”
She nodded, never taking her gaze from his face. “Why did you refuse to even
consider the marriage?”
“He tricked us. He has no money. If he had come to me and confessed it, I would
have thought better of him. It would have shown me a concern for Millicent he seems to
lack. Instead, he used the same small amount of money to make it appear that his affairs
were in order. I cannot condone deception. It demonstrates a lack of character I cannot
wish for in a brother-in-law. He has made it inevitable that Millicent has to marry him.
I’ve arranged it so she will not starve, but he won’t be able to touch the bulk of her
money. I’m so sorry, Aunt Maria. I handled the business badly, and if not for my
lamentable temper matters wouldn’t have come to this.”
“It’s not your fault.”
It was kind of her to say so, but Charles shook his head. “Not running away, that is
Millicent’s own foolishness, but she is young. She is also perceptive. I should have put
her in full knowledge of the facts, shown her exactly how Berrington tried to deceive us.
If she knew, I’m sure she would have thought twice before taking such rash action. She
wouldn’t have run off with him in such a way.”
His aunt stared at him silently, and he met her regard, letting her see his regret.
Eventually she let her hand drop to her side, and moved away towards the window. “A
fortune hunter,” she murmured.
“Indeed. I’m sorry.”
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His aunt seemed to regain some of her famous self-control. “Then the girl is a fool.
She must make the most of the situation she has brought upon herself.”
He knew by her hard tone how upset she was. He used the same device himself. The
harder he seemed to be, the more it hurt inside.
His thoughts were broken when the salon door burst open. Spinning on one heel
Charles turned to confront whoever had the audacity to enter so brusquely and without
knocking. “What—”
He stopped. Aimée’s nursemaid stood, pale and distraught, tears running down her
face. “My lord, she’s gone! Lady Aimée, she’s gone!”
“What do you mean, gone?” Cold hands clutched at his heart.
The nurse held out a note. He took it. The only sound was the crackling of paper.
Charles stared at the note for a full minute. “It’s from Berrington. He says he has
taken Aimée to ensure I don’t follow him. He will return her unhurt when he’s married
Millicent.” The note said much more than that.
Petherbridge
I have your sister and I have taken your beloved daughter for insurance. If you try to
stop us, if you send people to prevent us or if I see your face, I will kill them both. I will
send you instructions on how to get your daughter back. A substantial payment will be
involved.
Leave us alone and you will get your daughter back unharmed.
Do not test me on this. I swear I will do it.
“Is he mad?” his aunt exclaimed. “It’s the one thing guaranteed to make you follow
them!”
“He says he will kill the child if he so much as sees my face. I believe he could do
it.”
Charles couldn’t hide his despair. This was too much for him to bear. “He wants me
to make over Millicent’s money to her, free and clear, plus a lump sum to ‘start them on
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their life together’ and then he will release Aimée and ensure her safe return.” He
crumpled the note between his fingers. “Will he, by God!” His voice shook. This must
not happen.
The only possible response was action. He addressed the maid, still in the room, tears
pouring down her face. “The world knows about Lady Millicent’s folly. No one must
know about this. Did you tell anyone?”
The tearful maid shook her head. “I saw the note, and I brought it straight to you, my
lord. Lady Aimée was tired after her late night yesterday, so I decided to allow her to
sleep in. Her abductors padded her bed to make it seem as though it was still occupied.
My lord, I know I should have checked on her earlier, it is all my fault!”
The maid was almost as devoted to Aimée as he was. Besides, he needed her. “It is
not your fault, Grey. You can help us now.” He let his gaze encompass his aunt. “Let it
be known that Aimée has an illness. Measles, or influenza, something of that kind that
requires that she stays in isolation and quiet. You two will be the only people allowed
near her. In a few days, pack up and head for the house in Somerset. I’ll leave you a letter
of authorisation to ensure you get there smoothly. You see what I’m trying to do?”
The girl was not stupid. “You will go after her, my lord?”
“And bring her back. Make no mistake about that. Can I trust you to handle that?”
“Yes, my lord. With my life.”
In normal circumstances, Charles would have laughed at the exaggeration. Today he
saw nothing to laugh at.
“You cannot go,” his aunt said. “Send someone else after them.”
“Can I not?” His mouth firmed into a grim line. “By God, he will not do this! He will
not see my face, I can promise you that, but I will go. I’ll send word of my progress, if I
can, but expect nothing until you see me in Somerset. Tell people I’ve left town on a
country visit, one of those bachelor gatherings.”
He strode out of the room, intent on his purpose.
His aunt called after him, but he knew there was no more time to discuss matters. He
needed to be on the road as soon as he could manage it. He might catch up with them
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before Liverpool, if he was lucky. Aimée would slow Berrington and Millicent down. It
was a slim hope, but it was his only one.
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Chapter Six
“Good Lord!”
Perdita looked up from her breakfast. Lady Taversall, seated across from her, stared
at the letter in her hand. “What is it, Mama?” Another scandal, no doubt. It was a
measure of her ennui that Perdita didn’t take much interest.
All that changed when her mother looked at her, genuine concern in her gaze. Lady
Taversall enjoyed gossip, but she would not have taken it so seriously. That look was one
she reserved for people she cared about. That and her charitable causes. “It’s Lord
Petherbridge, dear.”
Despite the sun outside Perdita felt suddenly cold. “What about him?”
“It seems his sister has run away with—”
Perdita breathed the dreadful word. “Berrington. When?”
“Last night. This is a note from Lady Versicle. You know she lives next to the
Petherbridges’ house in town. Well, it seems the maids have been gossiping.”
“Oh, poor man!” Her first thought was for him. “Have they run to the Border?”
“No one knows.”
The realisation hit Perdita like a ton of bricks. She knew exactly where they had
gone. Berrington asked her to go with him, once. He had holdings in America, and his
idea was to take ship there. Long enough to extort all the money he could out of her
desperate family, far enough away to be sure pursuit would be next to impossible.
She stood up abruptly, her napkin falling to the floor. At her mother’s startled look,
she explained, “I think I know where they’ve gone. I have to tell him.”
She might have known her imperturbable mother wouldn’t be put out by her
comments. “Take a maid, dear. His aunt should be at home, so make sure you’re suitably
chaperoned.”
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Half an hour later Perdita was back. “He’s gone,” she informed her mother. “I
missed him.”
“Such a shame!”
“I left a note with his aunt, but she seemed too distracted to take anything in. Lady
Millicent was her darling. It’s true, the story of the elopement, but she doesn’t know the
half of it.”
She felt her mother touch her arm. “I knew there was more to that business than you
ever told me, but after your accident, we had more important things to cope with. What
will he do to her?”
“He could hurt her.”
Lady Taversall didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Oh God. I hope Petherbridge
catches up with them in time.”
He would not. Perdita knew he would be on the Great North Road, on his way to the
Border. Likely he’d completely bypass the turnoff to Liverpool. She would be on the road
herself in a few hours, travelling in luxury with the Devonshires.
Something stirred within her and a plan began to form. It could be possible for her to
help. If only one of her brothers were in town, but not one of them was, and there was no
help for it. She’d helped to create this mess, so she should help to extricate the young
woman from it.
She glanced at her mother. “I’ll go and change into some travelling clothes. I have to
be ready by eleven.”
Lady Taversall gave her daughter a suspicious glance. “Very well. You will follow
the route we set, won’t you, Perdita?”
“Of course, Mama,” Perdita said, demurely submissive.
In her room, she sat at the small desk and drew a piece of paper towards her. She
completed the letter to her aunt very quickly, and it contained more than her mother
would suppose. If anyone would allow her the freedom she needed, it was Aunt Grace.
She was determined on this. It was only a small detour she planned, after all.
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She wrote another note, and addressed it to herself at Chatsworth and another to an
address in Liverpool. That should cover her journey. Her plan should work, and she
would arrive on time, or only a day or two late, at Aunt Grace’s. Her mind raced ahead,
making plans, checking them for weak points, all emotion gone.
She had to give Millicent a chance, tell her what Berrington was like and give her the
choice. If Perdita could find her, and she saw sense, Millicent could join her on her visit
to Cumbria. The rumours of the elopement, currently racing around London, could be
explained as a coincidence, because Berrington and Millicent had left London on the
same day. No one would be any the wiser.
And it would thwart Berrington in his plans. Another fortune, another young girl,
another reputation ruined, as hers would be had matters fallen another way. Perdita
couldn’t stand by and wait for events to take their course. She would despise herself
forever if she didn’t use the knowledge she had to try to help another foolish young
woman tricked by a clever schemer.
The Devonshires mustered a large train of passengers and baggage. The annual
pilgrimage to Chatsworth had begun. Perdita was supposed to stay with them for a few
days, but she would make her excuses. It should be possible, if she insisted on a fast pace.
Only when she was ensconced in her carriage, alone except for a maid, did Perdita
allow herself to think. She should have warned Petherbridge before, she should have told
him what Berrington was like, all he’d done to her, but her desire to keep face, to keep
that look of hunger in Petherbridge’s eyes stayed her hand.
It was wrong. She should have taken the risk and told him the whole story, exactly
what happened between her and Conrad that day.
Her attraction was so strong; the feeling catapulted her right back to her misguided
passion for Conrad. The thought had disturbed her at a deep level, and she’d backed off.
Perdita stared out of the window at the scenery, green and lush, not really seeing any
of it but instead seeing a face she didn’t know, and eyes she would know anywhere.
Petherbridge was nothing like Berrington. It was foolish to allow her feelings to dictate
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her actions. She had failed to prevent a tragedy she saw coming. If Berrington was
merely another fortune hunter, Perdita would have left them to their fate. There were
worse things than heiresses running off with penniless lovers, after all. But Berrington
was different. He had a terrifying streak of violence that had shaken Perdita to her very
core. He could kill, she knew it, to protect himself and his good name. Once married and
away from the protection of her family, there would be nothing to save Lady Millicent.
She was as good as dead.
Rather than that, Perdita would kill him herself.
They arrived at Leicester by nightfall. Perdita was shown to her room, expecting any
moment the letter she had addressed to herself, care of the Three Cranes coaching inn. By
the time she left her rooms to join the Devonshires for dinner her anxiety was at fever
pitch. Why hadn’t she sent another letter ahead in case the first went astray? She might
have to wait until Cumberland, when she could explain to her aunt in person, and by then
it might be too late. It couldn’t be possible.
Frantically trying to improvise a new plan, Perdita entered the private dining room to
be greeted by the charming Lord Hartington and his wife. The heir to the wealthy
dukedom of Devonshire, and a successful politician, Hart was on his way home to
Chatsworth, to visit his ailing father and to host a small, select gathering. Perdita would
normally have been overjoyed to receive an invitation to such an august gathering, and
was loath to cut the visit short, but she knew she had to do it, somehow.
Hart met her with a smile and a letter. Her letter! Perdita stopped herself snatching at
it, and fixed the polite smile to her face. “I hope it’s not bad news,” the gentle
marchioness murmured, as she watched Perdita’s smile fade when she read the letter.
Perdita looked up, eyes tragic. “I’m afraid so. My aunt has been taken ill. My mother
asks that I travel to her immediately.” She carefully avoided saying which aunt and hoped
the Hartingtons wouldn’t ask.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear! I hoped you could stay with us for a week at least! We
must arrange for your escort.”
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“No,” Perdita protested quickly, “there is no need. My mother has made
arrangements. If I travel to my uncle’s house tomorrow I’ll be met there.”
Hartington looked sceptical, a frown marring his smooth forehead. “I would feel
better if I sent someone with you. The roads are dangerous, even these days.”
“Truly, sir, there’s no need to put yourself to such trouble.”
The argument raged through the first course but eventually Perdita got her way. She
would travel with her maid and her coachman to her uncle’s in Coventry, where her uncle
would arrange for her to carry on to her aunt’s. She was free.
The story she told her servants varied only slightly from the story she gave the
Hartingtons. Once her mother discovered her subterfuge, she would once more be as well
guarded as a debutante. She had to avoid that, for now at least, but she had no doubt that
fate would overtake her before the summer was out. It would be her penance for allowing
Lord Petherbridge’s sister to be taken in the same trap that had taken her.
Heavy hearted, Perdita knew her probable punishment was nothing next to the
danger Lady Millicent was in. If any lasting damage occurred, it would be her fault for
not being completely honest with her brother. Her plan was simple: to allow herself a
couple of extra days to spend in Liverpool, to find out if Berrington was using the same
plan as he did before and to try to speak to Lady Millicent.
She wouldn’t lay information against Berrington unless she had to, but Millicent was
underage, still under the jurisdiction of her brother, and she would if she had no other
choice. That way lay scandal and disgrace, once the elopement became public. It was
fortunate that the fashionable world was currently engaging in its annual exodus to the
countryside. The few days involved in her scheme could be fudged.
If there was no sign of the eloping couple, Perdita would have to try to find
Petherbridge, but for now speed was of the essence. If she could find Lady Millicent, she
could take her with her to Aunt Grace’s house, and no one would be any the wiser. Aunt
Grace knew to expect her a little later than originally planned, and that she might arrive
with a friend. It was enough. It would work, if she could persuade Petherbridge to keep
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his peace about the whole affair and not do anything like calling Berrington out. Men did
the most misguided things sometimes.
The journey was tedious, and fortunately, uneventful. Perdita told her servants she
was to do her Aunt Grace a favour in Liverpool and collect some items there for her, and
they were to bypass her uncle’s house in Coventry because of his sudden illness.
She showed them the letter. Not the one the Hartingtons had seen, but another, with
more detailed instructions. Her maid was to act as emergency chaperone, and to behave
more as a companion for the duration of the journey. Perdita ensured her servants were
new and not accustomed to the ways of the household, either her mother’s or her
brother’s. They would do as she told them to. Awed and excited by their unexpected
addition of authority, they agreed and swore to take the greatest care of her.
All this for a few extra days’ freedom in Liverpool! It might be too late to save Lady
Millicent’s innocence, but Perdita would try to save the rest of her life for her.
Her worst moments came when they racked up at a coaching inn in Coventry. She
spent the whole night worrying that her uncle, the strict disciplinarian vicar, would come
looking for her when she didn’t appear as expected. He would certainly write to her
mother, but by that time Perdita hoped to be well on her way to Cumbria, safely at Aunt
Grace’s house.
They got away early, when Perdita roused her maid and complained of bedbugs,
although in fact her agitation was wholly due to nervousness. One more overnight stop
and they reached Liverpool.
Perdita looked forward to seeing the great port, rumoured to be overtaking Bristol in
prosperity. She was not disappointed.
At the top of the rise, the view was so splendid Perdita made the coachman stop. She
leaned out of the window for a better look.
Spread out below was the growing town. She could feel the excitement, the life in
the place from where she sat. Streets fanned out from the hill, culminating in the great
port below, where several ships lay in the new docks, rigging tangling the sky, reaching
audaciously into the vast blue of the summer day. Most had sails furled, and some were
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only partly masted. These would be the new ships, or ships sent for repair here. From
here it looked orderly, clean and dreamlike but Perdita knew it would not be like that
closer up. There would be shouts, men carrying burdens to be loaded on to the ships,
even a coffle of slaves, sneaked ashore in this Land of the Free. It was illegal to own
slaves in Britain, but sometimes cargoes offloaded pretty boys and young men,
fashionable additions to great households. Perdita knew well what black men looked like.
There were many black faces in London, Lascars and Africans, preferring to make a
living in the great city than return home, people who had arrived too young to remember
where they came from. Some had broad Cockney accents. Perdita wondered what the
accent was like here.
It was like watching a model town, with tiny people going about their tiny lives.
Smiling at her conceit, Perdita ordered the coachman to drive on.
Liverpool was possessed of several fine coaching inns, so despite Perdita not writing
to bespeak a room, she was fairly confident of finding one available. They arrived at the
Angel, and discovered there were good rooms available.
The one she was shown to was perfectly adequate. Her maid busied herself changing
the sheets for the ones Perdita brought with her, a normal precaution for many of the
aristocracy, and one Lady Taversall insisted on.
At the thought of her mother, Perdita shuddered. The freedom of being on her own
was intoxicating, but she knew it was deceptive. There would be the devil to pay when
her mother caught up with her and she would be guarded closer than the Crown Jewels.
She sighed. She had better make the most of her freedom while she could. Perhaps she
could persuade her mother to be less protective, but she doubted her brother would be
quite so amenable.
Until last year, Orlando and Perdita were inseparable. He saw her at her worst, in
despair, wallowing in self-pity, and when she’d been overcome with terror, unable to re-
enter society. She’d never told him why, too afraid he would call Berrington out and start
the nightmare up again.
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The room was pleasant, clean and impersonal, a little better than the room she’d
stayed in the night before. Her maid was to stay in the same room, and even the truckle
bed she was to use was wider and more comfortable looking.
Tomorrow, Perdita would execute the first part of her plan. She couldn’t afford to
spend more than three days here, and she hoped it wouldn’t take that long. She wanted to
be at Aunt Grace’s, to have her aunt’s support when her mother discovered her
transgression. If she could assure her mother she’d behaved with perfect propriety the
results might not be so dire. The lies were a problem. She’d hated telling lies, but it was
the only way she could do this, the only way she could be sure of putting right the wrong
she’d done Petherbridge and his sister by not telling them the whole truth about
Berrington. It might do no good, but she had to try.
A good night’s sleep helped Perdita to regain the optimism she’d worked so hard to
regain two years before. Having lived for more than a year without it, she knew what it
was like to live without hope, and she didn’t want to go there again.
Ordering a simple outfit, a soft brown wool gown and a cloak, more for concealment
than warmth, she told her maid she wouldn’t require her for the next hour or two. She
needed to visit the offices on the quayside and the maid would be of no use. “I’ll take
John,” she said. “See that he knows. I want him ready in half an hour.”
John was new to the Taversall household, which was one reason Perdita chose him
for this journey, the other being that he was burly enough to make her feel safe. Old
retainers were apt to be proprietorial about their charges, and would certainly be fully
aware of Lady Taversall’s ideas on the topic of unmarried gentlewomen jaunting about
the country on their own.
Well, in a few days’ time, if she were fortunate, she would be on her way to
Cumbria, accompanied by a young friend. Putting up with the company of the spiteful
Millicent would be an excellent penance. But Millicent might be tearful and afraid by the
time Perdita caught up with her, if Berrington had treated her with the same callousness
he’d shown to Perdita. That might be worse.
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After a substantial breakfast, Perdita collected John from the hotel lobby and sallied
forth. She had a small sketch map of Liverpool in her pocket, marked with the location of
the offices of the shipping companies. There weren’t as many as London, and they were
all clustered within a small area, close to the docks, on a projection known as Pier Head.
Liverpool proved easy to navigate. All roads, it seemed, led to the docks. Or away
from them, depending on the direction one happened to be travelling. Perdita knew John
was not happy with her direction, but blithely ignored his hesitant, “My lady—” when
they approached the river.
The Mersey was an awesome sight. Wider than the Thames, closer to the sea, it
spread in a great expanse of grey-green water, glittering in the sun of what promised to be
a hot day. Perdita felt her armpits dampen when she approached the docks, and
determined to order a cool bath when they returned.
She turned her mind to the matter in hand. Gripping her map, she strode confidently
to the first office, a clean and respectable looking building set in a small row of offices,
all with brass plaques outside, some dirty and tarnished by the contact with damp, salty
air, some gleaming with fresh polish.
The office was crowded, and not all the visitors looked respectable. Perdita went to
stand next to a group of what looked like decent people, who were dressed in threadbare
but clean clothes and clutching grubby pieces of paper. She listened to them talking to the
clerk. They were leaving England, heading for the Colonies. Avidly she heard the man,
his country accent foreign to this place of twanging vowels and hard consonants,
carefully explaining matters to the clerk behind the desk. “We’m travellin’ next week on
the Queen Caroline.”
The clerk traced his finger down the list in front of him. “Mr. and Mrs. Oliver and
two children, Sam and Georgina.”
The man indicated the children with one wave of his hand. “Aye.”
The clerk made a few short strokes next to the names. “You’ll need to find lodgings
until the ship sails. Try Mrs. Brown’s in St James’s Street.”
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“We got somewhere. Here.” The man handed the clerk a grubby piece of paper,
bearing a scribbled note. It seemed to satisfy the clerk.
“That’ll do. Be at the dock at five o’clock in the morning next Wednesday. The ship
won’t sail without you!” They exchanged a wry smile, both understanding that ships
waited for no man when the tide was right.
Then it was Perdita’s turn. Trying to look humble, she explained her mission. “I’m
looking for a relative.” Despite her efforts, her cut-glass upper-class accent rang across
the office. Perdita lowered her voice, knowing she was attracting too much attention.
Giving the clerk a confiding smile she carried on, “I’m sorry. She’s run off with an
unsuitable man, and we thought she came here.”
The man raised his head and stared at her sharply. “Seems to be a spate of ‘em. Go
on.”
“She’s about twenty, and her suitor is older. Thirty. They’ll be well dressed. She’s of
medium height, with dark hair and brown eyes. He’s tall, handsome, dark haired, but
probably wearing a wig, dark eyes, very smooth.”
“You know him better than you know her.”
Perdita blushed. “Possibly.”
The clerk looked up, not unsympathetically. “There’s a ship sailing next Thursday
for Virginia. The Queen Caroline. It’s carrying a lot of passengers, more than usual.
Fifty. I can’t tell you if your couple will be on it, because I don’t know. They don’t all
report here in person, you know.” His roguish smile, dimpled at the corners, made Perdita
smile too. Glancing across the room, she assured herself that John was still lurking by the
door, and then turned back to the clerk. “Thursday, you say? Tomorrow?”
“Nay, ma’am. Next Thursday.”
Today was Wednesday. Perdita stood still, her mind whirling with plans and actions.
She could only hope the note she’d sent to Petherbridge would reach him, but if he were
on his way to the Border, he would be too late arriving here. Unless, by some miracle, the
note caught up with him. Then there was an outside chance.
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Apart from that, it was up to her. Throwing her reputation to the winds, Perdita made
her decision. “Very well,” she said firmly. “They will be travelling first class, so when
are they expected to embark?”
“Eight o’clock. They’ll be leaving on the tide at nine. From the dock.”
“Thank you.” She could do nothing more here. The clerk would have told her if he’d
known anything more, she was sure of it. Fumbling in her purse, she found a gold coin
and passed it across. “Thank you. I’m staying at the Angel, if you should hear anything.”
The clerk grinned. “I’ll be sure to let you know if anyone of that description comes
into the office.”
Perdita thanked him and pushed her way through the thickening crowd to John. She
had spoken quietly, and hoped no one heard her, for she didn’t wish to alert Berrington
that anyone was on his trail. Glancing around she saw no one she knew, but a burly man
pushed away from the wall when she walked across the room. She reached John and
sighed in relief to see his reassuringly large figure waiting for her. She lifted her chin and
they went outside.
The strong wind from the river buffeted them, making a warm summer day more like
a sharp spring one. Perdita took a step back, and John put out a hand to save her. She
frowned instinctively. His gesture demonstrated his newness to the job of footman. He
was only to touch her if she indicated she wished him to do so. “Come. We have to stay
here a few days yet.”
After consulting her street map, Perdita set off on the quickest route to the Angel inn.
Unfortunately, the street she led John into was long and narrow, and filled with what
appeared to be the most unfortunate creatures in the country. Near-naked children played
in the alley, their bones jutting against the thin covering of skin. Their mothers stood
watching Perdita. They leaned against the filthy walls behind them, their eyes avid with
greed.
Perdita turned and saw a narrow alley. A prosperous-looking man walked across the
other end, his dress immaculately neat, his cocked hat set at a jaunty angle. Heartened,
she headed for that thoroughfare. She must have mistaken the way.
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“Ma’am—” She heard John quaver, but she didn’t stop, or even look behind her.
She heard a dull thud and turned, her skirts swinging loosely around her calves.
The big man had been felled by another. John lay supine, his head held up by one
narrow wall. His assailant stared at her, a heavy club in one hand. “Give it up,” he said.
Perdita wasn’t sure what he wanted her to give up, but she wasn’t waiting to find out.
Picking up her skirts, she ran.
Straight into another man, as large as the other. The stink of his unwashed body
overwhelmed her senses, swamping her in an odour as thick as the atmosphere around
them. Pressed against his chest as she was, his laughter reverberated through her. She
lifted her head and stared up at him. The gap-toothed smile appalled her, as did the foul
stench coming from his open mouth. “A tasty morsel,” he rumbled, sounding as if he was
talking through gravel. “We’ll take more than your money, missis!”
“No!” Perdita gasped, but she knew without turning that the other man had come up
close behind her. She drew a breath to scream, knowing it was her only hope, but a hand
clamped over her mouth.
A beefy arm snaked around her waist from behind and she kicked back wildly,
receiving a laugh for her pains. “I like a spirited lass!” the man declared. “If you don’t
fight it’ll be over sooner. I’ve not ’ad a woman in days.”
“Well now’s your chance,” his friend rumbled. “Go on then. You can be first.”
“Where’s that fat purse?”
The groping around her waist made the most of the search for her purse, which
rested in the detachable pocket by her side, easily discovered. But he was discovering
more than her purse.
She would not beg. It would make no difference. Knowing she could not escape
Perdita continued to struggle. If she could give them a few barked shins so much the
better. The hand around her mouth relaxed and Perdita bit it, heedless of the rank taste of
who knew what.
“Argh!”
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Her victory was short lived. The hand was removed, only for her to suffer a
shattering blow when he used it to backhand her.
The blow knocked Perdita off her feet and spun her into the wall, sending her head
into a dizzy whirl. Losing her balance she stumbled and cried out hoping against hope
that someone would come, someone would stop this.
When Dr. Sewell had performed his unpleasant examinations on her, Perdita
accustomed herself to letting her mind wander to future events. She let that happen now.
This would all be over in—what—twenty minutes? With any luck she’d be left alive, and
she could escape.
Why hadn’t she brought a more experienced manservant? Why had she walked into
this alley?
When she fell onto the foul, damp ground, in this place the sun never reached, one of
the men followed her down. She felt her skirts lifted, and clamped her legs together. A
hard hand shoved between them, painfully prising them apart while another hand, from
another direction, pulled at her bodice, dragging it aside with rough, careless force.
Risking another blow, she screamed again, and kicked out.
A bright light split through her head and Perdita lost consciousness.
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Chapter Seven
At the first scream, Charles was tempted to ignore the sound. Screams weren’t
uncommon in this part of Liverpool. At the second, he was running almost before he
realised it. That sound was sheer terror, and he couldn’t pass it by.
Although the female had quietened, he knew where she would be. The ginnel, one of
many crossing the main streets near the docks. This one led to a more respectable area,
but was ignored by most citizens, respectable or otherwise.
He was right. Sprawled in the filth lay a small bundle of brown wool, almost
obscured by the heavy body lying over it. Two small, stocking-clad legs protruded either
side of the sturdy ones over them.
Charles saw red. All his life the sight of a larger person bullying a smaller one did
that to him, but he wasn’t so far gone he forgot to be sensible.
He drew one of the pistols he always wore here. “Stop!” he called out as he
approached. “Get off her!”
“Want a turn, mate?” was the only reply he received. “The money’s ours, but you
can ’ave a turn at the wench when we’re done!”
“Get up!” Charles stopped, far enough away to be unreachable, close enough to do
considerable damage if he fired.
Grumbling the man got to his feet, fumbling with the buttons at the front of his
breeches. “I said you could ’ave a turn!”
“Have you had your turn yet?” Charles asked, as calmly as he could.
“Just about to. Taking little thing. Now join the queue!”
“I think not. You can leave, or I can shoot you.” Charles regained his temper, but
only just. It wouldn’t take much for his finger, poised over the trigger, to tighten. He’d
already cocked the hammer back. He knew these pistols very well, and could judge to a
nicety how much pressure he would have to exert. Not a great deal.
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“Know ’er do you, or want ’er to yerself?”
“She’s mine.”
Recognising the superior armoury the two men backed off, never turning around
until they reached the far end of the ginnel. Then they fled.
Charles eased the hammer forward and shoved the weapon back in his belt, keeping
the handle well forward, just in case he needed to grab it in a hurry. Only then did he
allow himself a sigh of relief. The men could have been as well armed as he was. He was
prepared to make each of his shots count, and he had a knife in his boot as well, but there
were two of them, and he would have had little chance in hand-to-hand encounters.
He had to get the girl out of this place. The men might be back, with reinforcements.
He hurried forward and froze, taken out of practicalities, the shock searing through his
soul.
How could it be possible? How could she be here?
He knew it was she. The soft, slender body lay sprawled in an obscene position on
the filthy ground, a travesty of the silk-clad beauty he remembered, the figure that
haunted his dreams, so that he preferred sleeping to waking. How on earth did Lady
Perdita Garland come to be here?
Shaking off his sudden inability to move, Charles bent forward and scooped her up,
together with some of the filth she lay on. She was deeply unconscious, and when
Charles saw the blood at the back of her head, he realised why. At least the blood seemed
to have slowed to a trickle.
Not pausing to assess her condition any further, Charles set off for home.
Groaning Perdita opened her eyes. Softness under her, something over her that
smelled clean. Pain in her head. “Easy,” someone said softly. “You’re safe now. Just
rest.”
Her eyes snapped open. She knew that voice, surely she knew! It took her a moment
to recognise the face before her, but then her eyes met his. “Petherbridge,” she breathed,
her voice hardly stirring the air, so faint was it.
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“Charles,” he answered. “Just Charles, if you please. The walls here are thin.”
Perdita blinked, and tore her gaze away from his, taking in her surroundings. The
room was bare, but clean, the sheets she lay between were smooth and sweet smelling.
But this was no inn, no fashionable residence; the walls were split with deep cracks, the
floor was bare floorboards. “What? Where am I?”
“Duke Street, Liverpool,” he said with a grin. “Not the most salubrious of
addresses.” The grin faded. “You shouldn’t be here, Perdita.”
Perdita’s attention returned to Petherbridge—Charles. She hadn’t known he had dark
brown hair that curled over his temples, and she hadn’t noticed the natural shape of his
face before. Firm-jawed, strongly accented, very male. She liked this Charles better than
the fashionable Lord Petherbridge.
She smiled. He smiled back and the moment stretched into infinity.
Charles broke it when he moved to sit on the bed with what she would normally
consider shocking intimacy. Perdita moved to shift away from him, but he forestalled her,
slipping an arm under her head and lifting her gently. Despite his care, Perdita winced.
Pain shot through her temples. “Here. Drink a little of this. It’s small beer. The water’s
not safe to drink unless it’s boiled.”
The beer was cold and refreshing, washing the taste of blood and fear from her
mouth. Perdita, too weary to fight, accepted his shoulder as a pillow and allowed him to
feed her small sips of the beer from the mug in his hand. For the first time since she
started this adventure, she felt safe.
“Better?” Charles moved the mug away, setting it at his feet, but didn’t release
Perdita. Instead, he leaned her forward a little. “You have a small cut. It’s not serious,
and I cleaned it, so it should be all right. Unfortunately, under the cut is a lump. Did they
hit you or did you strike your head when you fell?”
“Fell?” Perdita didn’t remember falling. Neither did she remember removing her
clothes, but a shock rippled through her when she realised she was only wearing her shift.
She wiggled her toes. Her stockings were still on. She felt a measure of relief. She still
didn’t like people to see her legs.
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“I’m sorry.” His voice came alarmingly close. “Your clothes were beyond help,
steeped through with filth. I had to remove them to see if you’d hurt yourself.”
“And have I?” Perdita heard the waspish tone enter her voice and did nothing to
suppress it.
“No more than a few bruises. I haven’t examined all of you, just your head and
checked you for broken bones. And I was afraid your stays would impede your
breathing.”
“Really?” Ignoring the pain in her head Perdita jerked away from him, falling on to
the pillows under her and suppressing a wince of pain. “What is all this? How did I get
here? What are you doing here?”
He showed no irritation at her anger. “Do you remember this morning?”
“No. Yes.” Perdita frowned, recalling her day. “I went to the shipping office, to try
to find which ship they were on.” She looked up. “I take it you know Berrington and your
sister are probably here somewhere.”
He nodded. “Berrington left me a note, and I found their destination in Millicent’s
room. She was never proficient at hiding her tracks.”
“You’re too good for her,” Perdita said, before she realised how bad that sounded.
“Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No matter. Go on.” Seeming to realise her discomfort at having him so close
Charles moved to a basin of water by the fireplace, and lifted a jug from the centre of it.
He refilled the mug.
Perdita took a deep breath. “I don’t remember anything after I left the office. I had
my footman with me. I don’t know what happened to him.”
“Neither do I. You were the only person I saw in that alley.”
Perdita racked her brains, but simply managed to make her head hurt more. “If
Berrington sees me and recognises me it’s all over.”
“Where are you staying? It would be better if you returned and got out of this mess.
If Berrington sees you, he’ll—” He broke off, and turned away, but not before Perdita
saw the anguish twisting his features. She had no idea he cared for his sister so much. He
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didn’t know what Berrington was capable of doing to her, so the affair could have been a
precipitous elopement, no more.
Perdita returned to his question, and realised a shocking fact. “I don’t know where
I’m staying. At an inn, but I can’t remember which one.” The more she tried to
remember, the more her head hurt.
He turned to her, his face smoothed of expression. “No matter. I can find out.”
A shaft of sunlight struggled through the grimy windows, illuminating one half of his
body. A body displayed more than usual, in simple shirtsleeves and breeches, a worn
leather belt his only adornment.
“Why are you like this? Why don’t you use your influence and have them arrested?”
He frowned. “I can’t. Berrington threatened me that if he saw me he would kill
Aimée.”
“Aimée?” Perdita shot up to a sitting position, heedless of the pain flashing through
her skull. “He has your daughter?”
They stared at each other in shocked silence, and Perdita realised why his anguish
was so pronounced. Berrington was capable of carrying out his threat. “My God, Charles,
you have to stop them!”
“I know.” Something in her expression stopped him from saying whatever he was
going to say next, and he came forward, depositing the mug on the floor again. “What do
you know? Why are you looking quite so worried?”
Perdita tried to prevaricate. “He has your daughter. Surely that’s enough?”
“Not for that look of complete terror you just masked. What is it? Tell me!”
He looked almost savage and Perdita instinctively shrank back, only stopping when
her sore head met the hard headboard behind her. Her wince of pain seemed to bring him
to his senses, and he sat on the bed once more. “You must know I would never hurt you,
but I need to know. Tell me, Peri!”
At the sound of that name he had laughingly bestowed on her something inside
Perdita melted. He was right. She felt safe with him, safer than she felt with anyone else,
except Orlando and perhaps her stepfather.
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“We were engaged once, Berrington and I. Unofficially. When my stepfather heard
of our plans, he said we could not until he investigated the man. Conrad wasn’t pleased at
that, and demonstrated a frightening degree of violence.” She swallowed. Not all the
truth, but enough to let Charles know what he was up against.
He reached out and took her hand. Despite her effort to distance herself from the
experience by using deliberately formal language he had seen her fear, the fear she had
never been able to dispel. “He could do it. He could kill your daughter.” It was better
said.
Charles stared at her, his expression unreadable. Despite the physical contact, he
seemed to have withdrawn into himself. Perdita wasn’t sure what to do. Here she was, in
a man’s bed dressed only in a thin shift and her stockings. She should dress and return to
her inn. If she could remember which one it was.
“How do you know?”
She swallowed and looked down at the threadbare bedcover, studying the faded
pattern. “He hurt me. I met him to tell him what Taversall had discovered about his
finances and he—he—he hurt me, Charles.”
“I feared something like that.” Charles spoke softly, but Perdita heard menace in the
soft tones and was glad the threat was not for her. “If he lays one finger on my daughter,
he’s a dead man.”
“What about Millicent?”
“She has made her own bed. I wouldn’t have followed if he hadn’t taken Aimée.”
Perdita thought of the spirited, spoiled child and knew Aimée would be marked by
the encounter, if not physically, then deep inside herself. She wanted to help. “I can’t
walk away from this. What can I do?”
Charles became practical, seeming to cast off his fears, but Perdita knew better. He
concealed them, stored them up to draw on another time. “I thought I would find your
inn, and bring your maid here, with a change of clothing. We can brush through this.”
“I suppose we have to. But I won’t leave.”
“You have to. Did you bring a chaperone?”
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Perdita shook her head and saw his mouth tighten. “A mistake.”
“My maid was to chaperone me until I reached Cumbria. I stopped here because—
because I knew where Berrington was likely to take her. When I heard the news I sent to
your house, but you had already left. I did not raise the alarm, since you seemed to wish
it, and decided to see what I could do.”
“And what could you do?” He twined his fingers with hers, his voice softening to an
intimate murmur.
“I wanted to try to persuade Millicent to join me on my visit to my aunt in Cumbria.
It is a private visit, and no one would know if we claimed we were there a few days
before we actually arrived.”
He smiled, a genuine, friendly smile that crinkled up the corners of his eyes in a most
attractive way. “An excellent plan! I thank you. But I cannot have you embroiled in all
this, Peri, not if I’m here. If you feel better, I’ll go and discover your inn.”
“Oh. Yes. But mayn’t I remain here a few days, to see if they turn up?”
He released her hand gently and got to his feet. “It’s better not. You can’t fudge a
week’s absence, can you? And now you know I’m here, you will feel better, will you
not?”
Perdita saw the sense in what he said, and even felt some relief. “Is there anyone
here to help you?”
He shook his head. “The less people know about this the better.”
That was when Perdita realised that he meant to kill Berrington, if he could. And
heaven help her, she was glad of it.
Entering his room later, heavy of heart, Charles spirits lifted when he saw the
occupant of the bed. Perdita was fast asleep, her tangled hair streaming behind her on the
pillow, the sheets barely disturbed by her slight body. Despite the news he had to give
her, he was glad she was here, glad there was someone else to share the burden.
He threw off his worn, patched coat and moved closer to the bed. Her breathing
hardly disturbed the sheets, just enough to stop him worrying. She looked terribly
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vulnerable, and yet he knew an indomitability of spirit lay inside her that he had rarely
encountered in anyone else.
As though she felt him watching her, she awoke. Her eyes snapped open but she lay
still, staring in front of her, at the cracked wall. Slowly, she turned on to her back, and
brought the sheet up to her chin. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
“My maid. You said you would bring her.”
“I can’t. She’s gone.”
Forgetting the sheet, Perdita sat bolt upright, her hair a flyaway tangle around her
head. She looked like an angel out of a Filippo Lippi painting, eyes, so blue, staring into
his in shock. “What do you mean, gone?”
“There are half a dozen coaching inns in Liverpool, and the Angel was the last one I
tried.” He grimaced. “It was almost inevitable that I try the one you stayed at last.” She
didn’t smile. “You weren’t registered under your own name, but your alias wasn’t
difficult to guess. Also, there aren’t too many young ladies travelling unchaperoned.” She
swallowed. “You were Pamela Claverty, weren’t you?”
The light dawned in her eyes. “Yes, that was it, that was the name I used. I’m
sorry—”
He waved her apology aside. “It doesn’t matter. They left with your belongings.
Your maid and your footman. Perhaps he thought they had killed you. Whatever he
thought, he failed in his duty to protect you. Your mother would have had his head.”
“They were new,” she whispered. “I chose them because they were new. I didn’t
want anyone who had a fair idea of my mother’s objections to this trip.”
“So they have no loyalty to your family.” He reached out and touched her hand,
unclenching her fingers from the sheet. He took her hand firmly in his. “We’re on our
own, sweetheart. What do we do now?”
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Chapter Eight
Perdita stared at Charles, eyes wide with shock. Her head had almost stopped
throbbing. “Gone?” She felt stupid, unable to take any more in. “Is there any sign of
them, where they went, anything?”
“They left shortly after the footman returned. They were carrying a number of bags
but they left on foot. All they could carry, I suppose.”
“I didn’t have a great deal with me. Most of my luggage went on ahead to Cumbria.
There were some gowns, and some jewellery, nothing of great value.”
He stroked her palm with one gentle finger. “Valuable to them. If they stayed, and
you were killed, they would have been held to blame. They took what they could and
left.”
“Oh God!” Perdita was in real trouble. “Do you think they took the coach?”
His head went up. “You were travelling with a coachman?”
She looked aside. “A hired chaise.”
He sighed. “No help there, then. How long before your family sets up a hue and
cry?”
She knew immediately what he meant. He couldn’t afford attention turning in his
direction. “Aunt Grace will give me a week. I slipped my leash and wrote to her
beforehand, so she thinks I’m arriving later than I planned to. I sent myself a letter so I
could leave the Devonshire party early, and they think I’m in Coventry.”
“Dear Lord!” A smile curved his lips. “Your ingenuity is frightening, Lady Perdita!”
A small spurt of pride surged inside her. She had shaken her protectors off rather
well. Then she felt foolish. She could have done with some of them earlier today. “I’m
not so young any more, so not as well protected as a debutante. I was hoping to be
allowed a little more freedom. I’m almost on the shelf.”
“Not from where I’m sitting.”
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Perdita knew she blushed from the heat under her cheeks, but she didn’t try to cover
herself. She had too much pride to do that. “Well I am. I’m seven and twenty, and don’t
try to tell me that’s not on the shelf!”
“How would you describe thirty?”
“Solidly on the shelf,” she replied firmly.
“Then I’m pleased to join you there,” he said.
“But you’ve been married. You can’t be on the shelf if you’ve been married.”
He shrugged. “I considered myself off the marriage market, at least until recently.
I’ve been persuaded to look for a new wife, for the estate still needs an heir. I never had
any lack of young females throwing themselves at my head, and I don’t flatter myself that
it’s me they want.”
Perdita never thought of anything beyond him, at least when she was with him, but it
would be too dangerous to tell him so. She was in his bed, hardly a stitch to her name,
and still feeling giddy from her experience earlier in the day. Vulnerable was an
understatement.
But he must have seen something in her face, for he brought the hand he still held up
to his lips, and kissed it softly. There was none of the practised society charmer in his
gesture. It seemed wholly honest. It touched Perdita more than anything else she could
remember. “I think you’re splendid,” she heard herself whisper. She cursed her
foolishness immediately, but it was done.
“Thank you, my lady.” They stared at each other, their gazes hiding nothing, honest
and true. He broke the contact first, with an easy smile. “This is getting us nowhere. How
are we to get you out of this? I think I should take you to your aunt’s.”
“No!” Revolted by the thought, she gripped his hand. “They would get away, and
then you would never catch them! The ship leaves next Thursday, you need to be here
then.”
He didn’t betray himself by as much as a wince. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters! You can’t miss them.”
“I don’t feel happy sending you on your own. You should have someone with you.”
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She shook her head. “I don’t want to go anywhere. Can’t I stay here? Aunt Grace
and I will come up with something.”
“Are you sure?” Despite his concern for her Perdita saw the relief on his face. He
would still be able to save his daughter.
“It’s only a few days.” She wasn’t at all sure, but she wanted to see this thing
through.
They sat for a while in silence, their hands still entwined. Perdita saw him withdraw,
watched his gaze become distant. Sounds filtered in from outside. Men shouting, the
occasional shrill female comment. Liverpool was open for the night. “It could work,” he
murmured eventually.
He seemed to come to, and smiled at her in apology, withdrawing his hand. “If you
were here, I could escort you and Millicent to your aunt’s house when I have Aimée
back. I’m sure we can come up with something.”
“It would help both of us.” Perdita accepted an uncomfortable truth. “I’m afraid I
might have to tell my mother, though. She will know something is wrong.”
“I see.” He looked up, straight into her eyes and she met his clear green gaze
honestly. “We might have to marry. It may be that this is too compromising to explain.”
Perdita forced a laugh. “How ridiculous! No one knows I’m here, I’m sure of that.
Who knows where you are?”
He shrugged. “My aunt. She saw the letter, too. And my man of business. He will
receive any letters sent to me in London, and any demands for payment. No one else.” He
smiled. “Except my banker. I have an account here, at Martin’s Bank. I’ve sworn the
manager to secrecy.”
“Oh.” That relieved Perdita of one knotty problem. Her money had gone with the
servants, so she had nothing. At least she could borrow from him, and repay the loan
later. Now all she needed was clothes. She looked over at her clothes, in a muddy heap on
the floor by the door. He followed her gaze.
“I think that should be next,” he said. “There’s a pawnshop on every corner of Duke
Street, at least the corners that don’t have a drinking den—or worse.”
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Perdita bit her lip. “Pawned clothes?”
He laughed. “Indeed, ma’am. Don’t you think it might look a little out of place to
order a mantua maker to visit here?”
Perdita indicated her figure with one vague sweep of her hand. “Then you had better
look for children’s clothes.”
His smile became warm. “I doubt a child’s clothes would fit you, my lady.” The term
Perdita was used to hearing as an honorific suddenly became warmer. She swallowed,
feeling slightly uncomfortable, aware of her state of undress. His gaze was decidedly
appreciative, though anything further from a leer was difficult to imagine.
“I’m very small,” she ventured.
“And every inch counts.” His voice had lowered to an intimate murmur, and his grip
on her hand tightened. Then, with an effort, he released it and stood up. She felt bereft.
His hand in hers steadied her, made her less nervous, not more, as she supposed she
rightly should have been.
He went over to the window and gazed out. “It seems quiet out there. Will you be all
right if I lock the door behind me?”
“Yes,” she said, although there were one or two things she would have liked to have
known about the room.
He grinned. “You’ll find the—facilities—behind that screen.” He indicated a
battered Chinese screen in the corner. Well that answered one of her questions. “I try to
retain some attributes of civilisation.” He turned, his hand on the doorknob. “Which is
more than you’ll find in Versailles.” With a jaunty smile, he left.
Outside the house, Charles allowed his perplexity to show, frowning. He hardly
noticed the brawl going on in the middle of the road. Usual, in this part of Liverpool, if a
little early in the evening. Women stood in the doorways of nearby houses, comfortably
propped against the doors, watching the proceedings, and, if Charles was any judge,
taking bets on the outcome.
He had no idea what to do about his current predicament. In some ways, Perdita’s
appearance was a godsend, providing a story he could use to protect Millicent’s name.
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But she was in danger and by extension, so was his daughter. If anyone recognised her, or
saw them together, the game would be up. His appearance was enough to prevent anyone
but his most intimate acquaintances recognising him, but Perdita, with her silver-gilt hair
and compact figure was unforgettable. She could remain in the room for the next four
days, but he doubted she would take kindly to that idea. She wouldn’t go out without his
escort, though. Not in this area. He’d chosen Duke Street as the most notorious area, the
place he would never be looked for. Even if Berrington heard he was in pursuit, Charles
knew he wouldn’t be recognised, at least until it was too late, or if Millicent caught sight
of him. She would not. But Perdita wasn’t as easy to disguise.
He stopped outside the pawnshop and studied the garments hung high above the
door. No, none of those would do. He went inside.
After half an hour, he emerged with a large bundle and headed for home. The men
were still fighting, and the crowd of onlookers had increased. He could hear the betting,
odds being shouted from the edge of the crowd, shouts as some of the men accepted the
bets.
Charles had to stop when someone greeted him. “Want some?” a man said, offering
Charles a swig from a black bottle. Pushing down his distaste Charles accepted, and took
what looked like a hearty swig of the strong, raw spirit, handing it back with a word of
thanks and swiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Ta, mate,” he said.
The man grinned at him. “I reckon this could go on some time. Good odds on
George there, though I’ve got my dosh on Will. He’ll ’old out longer if’n ’e can keep on
’is feet.”
“You reckon?” Charles shoved his hand in his pocket and brought it out empty. “No
go tonight.” He didn’t attempt the Liverpudlian twang, but affected a more Southern
accent, one he heard in London’s streets. It would have been suicide to try to imitate an
accent known so well up in this part of the country. As a result, he’d become known as
Cockney John at the docks.
“Whatcha got there?” His companion stared curiously at the parcel.
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Charles shrugged. “My woman’s come up from the Smoke.”
The man thought that a great joke, clapping Charles on the shoulder with one beefy
hand. “’Eard you was earnin’ good money, did she?”
“Something like that.”
“So you’re buyin’ stuff for ’er?”
“’Ad to. Some bastards ’ad a go at ’er earlier. After she got off the coach.”
Joviality turned to concern. “She all right?”
Charles nodded. “Shaken up. But I’d like to get ’old of them what did ’er. If you ’ear
anything, let me know, eh, Chas?”
“Aye.”
Charles nodded and carried on his way. It would give him some satisfaction to catch
up with the ruffians who nearly destroyed Perdita. If anyone would hear, it would be Irish
Chas, who did a little fencing as well as his regular work. He got rid of most of the
illicitly acquired goods that came into the dockers’ hands, the casual thievery that went
on at every port. Smugglers weren’t interested in that, they had their own arrangements,
so the casual and not-so-casual thieving that went on at the ports was mostly done by
freelance operators and small gangs.
Entering the shabby house again felt almost like coming home, but the feeling wasn’t
from the building. He was coming home to someone. He remembered the last time he’d
felt like that, but he had to remember a long way back.
He’d forgotten how pleasant the feeling was. He’d spent so long building up his
shields, and she had crept under them without effort.
Climbing the stairs, he got out his key and entered the shabby little room.
She was sitting up in bed, the sheet tucked under her arms. He didn’t try to stop the
smile that rose to his lips. She smiled back.
Slightly anxious he undid the bundle. “I did my best,” he said. “I tried to buy things
you wouldn’t usually wear.”
She gave him a sly glance. “I dread to think what you bought.”
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His laugh had no shadow to it. “I cast these at your feet, my lady.” He draped the
garments across the foot of the bed. A brown caraco jacket, a faded petticoat of pink
wool, a shift of fine linen, a gown of green dimity and a travelling cloak. He’d found a
plain linen cap with modest lappets for her, and a pair of sturdy leather shoes. Plain
woollen stockings and undecorated garters completed her ensemble.
Perdita leaned forward and fingered the shift. “Isn’t this too fine for someone living
in Duke Street?”
He shrugged. “No one will see it, and I didn’t want you uncomfortable.”
She glanced at him. “Thank you.”
He stood up. “I should go and get some food. You must be hungry.”
“Oh, don’t—yes of course.”
He smiled and left her again, giving her time to dress.
When he returned she was dressed in the gown. He was relieved to see it wasn’t too
long for her. It had already been altered, the hem lifted to accommodate some other short
female. Except he didn’t think of Perdita as short. Her indomitable spirit made her
occupy more space than her compact body, as though she claimed some of the air around
her for her own. He put down the parcel. “There’s a pie shop that seems to be reasonably
clean. I have tea, too.”
“Oh, that is marvellous! I would really like some tea!”
Charles was pleased he’d guessed right. He pulled the screen away from the fire. On
a hot day like this he tried to keep the fire banked down, but it was necessary if he wanted
hot water and the occasional dish of tea. He left one of the windows open at the top,
hoping the draught would remove most of the heat.
On a shelf was laid out his meagre crockery. Two plates, three tea dishes, one
cracked, and a teapot. He found the salt. He’d chosen mutton pies, and stopped at a
greengrocer’s for some fresh fruit, apricots and strawberries, abundant in these early
weeks of summer. He put the can of milk in the bowl of cold water. He bought it every
day, from a dairy he knew kept cows of its own, and didn’t adulterate the milk it sold on
the premises. Later, the dairymaids would water the stuff down, and add chalk to improve
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the colour, together with other less salubrious ingredients. Dangerous stuff, milk, or what
passed for it in the growing towns and cities of Britain.
He had plain, thick white pottery plates, which she helped him lay on the gate leg
table standing under one of the windows, with the food. He made the tea himself, pouring
the water from the blackened kettle hanging above the fire, not forgetting to refill it from
the can of water he kept in the corner.
She watched him bring the teapot to the table, the food on her plate untouched.
“You needn’t wait for me,” he said. “Tuck in. You must be hungry.”
She smiled, but didn’t pick up her knife until he sat down. “Habit. It doesn’t seem
right to start first.”
He grinned, and reached for the bread, laid out on a plate between them. “So
refined!” he mocked, but she didn’t mind. She smiled in response. Their eyes met and
they exchanged a look of pure friendship.
It was the first time Charles remembered any such exchange, male or female.
Women wanted one thing from him, and men wanted another. No one seemed to want
plain, ordinary Charles Dalton. He never thought about it before, just accepted it as a fact
of life, but now, he was shown a different way. All with a woman’s smile.
She was hungry. He watched her devour her meat pie with a dainty precision, not
tempered by her appetite but by her upbringing. Still, it all went, and with remarkable
speed. He stood and took the empty dishes to the bowl he used for washing up and
turned, fruit bowl in hand, to find her watching him.
He raised an eyebrow in query and went to sit down opposite her again. The setting
sun cast its rays across the old table, raking over every scar and dent. It seemed
incongruous to find such a picture of perfection sitting at it. The sun lit her hair to bright
gilt, trying to find an imperfection of feature. To Charles’s mind, there was none. From
silver blue eyes to rosebud mouth it was all as it should be. He didn’t dare look lower, not
in this mood.
“How did you learn to do all this?”
“All what?”
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She gestured around the pin-neat room. “You know to put the milk in water, you
know how to serve food, how to make tea, how to clean. You’re a marquess. How do
marquesses learn all that?”
He laughed out loud. “My father,” he explained. “He had some unusual ideas. Every
year he took me into the woods, to a hut he’d built there and we’d have to survive on
what we could trap. We had the use of a cow, but I had to learn to milk the thing myself. I
hated it, but it had its uses, as it turns out. After that, this is easy.”
Her smile broadened and at the end of his explanation, she broke into delighted
laughter. “Oh no! The exquisite Marquess of Petherbridge living like a native in the
woods? I can’t believe it!”
“Please do,” he said, enjoying her amusement, knowing quite well why she thought
it so strange. How different a life appears when someone sees only one part of it! “My
society face is only one part of me.”
Her laughter gently fading away Perdita stared at him, and he could tell from her
intent look that she was really studying him.
He was a man. Just a man. Perdita felt a shock when the realisation sank into her.
Before, in his fantastical society garb and all the paint he’d been something removed,
something else, something different. Dressed in waistcoat and shirtsleeves rolled up to
the elbow he looked far more ordinary.
No, not ordinary. Perdita deliberately looked away and chose an apricot from the
bowl. Special, even more than the fashionable dandy. He was special, at least to her. His
face was handsome, just as she’d thought it would be. No one had that poise without
having some natural attributes to begin with. His body was firm and well muscled,
though not swelling grotesquely as she had seen in some pugilists. When she saw him
move, she wanted to touch him, to feel his muscles move under her hand.
She could not think like that. If she knew anything about him, it was that he was
chivalrous to a fault. He wouldn’t force her, wouldn’t take her if she offered, and that
would not be fair. Perhaps, when they were back in their own milieu, she might seriously
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reconsider her decision if she was given the opportunity, but she would not force him.
That was her contribution to appropriate behaviour.
To add to his eyes, the only part she felt she knew from before, she could add high,
well-defined cheekbones, a firm jaw and a mobile mouth made for laughter. And for
kissing. She already knew that. His hair was dark brown, with a natural wave that sent
errant locks over his forehead. She wanted to see his hair even more tousled. She wanted
to touch it, to see if it was as soft as it looked.
Hastily she looked away, aware that the heat was rising to her cheeks. She stood.
“Shall I make some more tea?”
“That would be pleasant.”
Perdita went to the fire and used the cloth to lift the kettle, tilting it to refill the pot. It
gave her something to do. At home she could move to a different room, find a book or
distance him with polite conversation but here it seemed out of place. Wrong.
“Perdita, you shouldn’t have done this. Why didn’t you leave it to me?”
It was uncomfortably close to the truth she knew she should conceal from him, but
she tried. “I let it happen, in a way. I felt responsible because I didn’t tell you everything
I knew about Berrington. He courted me a few years ago, when he thought I was an
heiress. He was right. My brother had restored the family fortune, and one of his first
actions was to endow me with a generous portion.”
“How did he restore your fortune? Is he a gambler?”
Relieved that the conversation was moving away from the sensitive subject of
Conrad, Perdita was pleased to tell him. She filled the dishes with hot tea, added the milk
and returned to the table. He smiled his thanks. “You give yourself away, putting the milk
in last.”
She turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “How so?”
“People here protect their china by putting the milk in first.”
She laughed. “You notice that kind of detail?”
“Indeed I do.”
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“That might be why you make such a successful dandy.” Perdita’s eyes widened and
she put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes you did.” The corner of his mouth quirked in a half smile. It gave him a roguish
look she found irresistible. “I don’t mind, because you’re right. I became what I am by
watching and imitating. Then I added a few touches of my own.” She didn’t ask what she
longed to ask. Why? “Everyone at Versailles goes to extremes,” he said, as though he’d
heard her unspoken question. “I didn’t fit as I was, so I became something else. I enjoyed
it.” Why? “When I came back to England I was confident enough to continue with it. I
enjoyed the attention then.” She could understand that. She had done the occasional
outrageous thing herself, just to remind herself and others that she existed. He had kept it
up for a considerable time.
“Will you carry on? Is it a lifetime crusade?”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. “A crusade? I don’t know. As long as it amuses
me, I suppose. Aimée enjoys it, too. The effect I have when I enter a room.”
“They think you’re—” She flushed, but carried on. “They think you’re a molly.”
He grinned broadly. “I know. I’ve heard the talk. There are even bets on it in
White’s.” The smile left his face, to be replaced by a more intimate expression. Perdita
picked up her tea dish and sipped, just for something to do. “You know differently, don’t
you?”
Her nod was brief and brisk. “I think so.”
“You’re the only Englishwoman who does. I’ve deliberately left them guessing.”
This time her question was out loud. “Why?”
“Because, my dear, my fortune is large, as is my influence. I have the fortune I was
born to, and the bulk of my wife’s, since there was no one else to inherit when she died.
With such a fortune I had no mind to be married for it, so I decided to keep everyone at a
distance until I understood the way society here worked.”
“But you’ve been here for a while.” When his expression hardened, Perdita knew she
had gone too far. She knew Petherbridge—Charles—was a very private man. This would
probably be enough to ensure his hiding behind a mask of paint and wigs and fine
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clothes. Living with her volatile, open family had spoiled her for such people. She knew
she could be too frank at times. “I’m sorry. I won’t pry any more.”
His expression immediately softened. “No matter. It’s not prying. Or at least, not
much.”
“My family shares everything. We all know each other’s business. When my brother
Daniel and my sister-in-law had a few problems we all knew of it.” She smiled, recalling
how blissful Daniel and Miranda were these days. She knew the real reason for their
problem, as did all the adult members of the family, but she had enough discretion to
keep that to herself. “We got together and helped them overcome it. Or at least gave them
the means to overcome it themselves.”
He finished his tea and stood up, picking up the dishes and taking them over to the
basin. “I wasn’t close to anyone in my family except my father, and he died when I was
eighteen. I went abroad the same year. My mother wouldn’t allow me to defer my Grand
Tour, said I needed to get away, to distance myself for a while.” He turned back to face
her, expression untroubled. “She was right. My uncle was trustee of the estate; I was not
allowed to take control until I came of age. I met my wife not long after that.”
“You were eighteen?”
“Yes.”
Perdita suffered a shock. She hadn’t done the arithmetic, but his daughter was barely
five. She’d known he married young, but not as young as that. He was thirty, and she
somehow assumed he’d married shortly before, but it seemed not.
She saw him watching her, waiting for her response, so she gave it. “You married
very young.”
“I did. I was madly in love.”
“Madly,” she said dryly.
“More than I knew.”
They stared at each other, and she knew he had told her a secret. She was also
coming to know how much that meant to him, to let her into his confidence. To let
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anyone in. He had come to realise his madness, and perhaps to regret it. “I’ve never been
in love like that,” she ventured.
“You’re very fortunate.”
It was true. She went along with Berrington until he persuaded her she was in love.
His attentions, his flattery all swept her away, but in the course of one day she’d known it
was all false, all wrong. She shuddered at the thought of having to meet him again, to
read the taunting reminder in his eyes. She would do it, then, with any luck, she need
never set eyes on him again.
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Chapter Nine
Conrad sighed for the hundredth time that day. He’d reminded himself constantly
that the fortune would be worth it, that eventually they would win clear. Already he’d had
to change the plans he’d carefully drawn up, something that was fraught with danger. But
he had to dump the brat soon. Otherwise he might go stark raving mad.
He looked across the private parlour he’d been forced to hire to where the brat was
sitting mulishly in front of a plateful of food, her mouth set into a hard line. “Please,”
Millicent said, “Eat something, Aimée. I swear we will see your father soon.”
The mouth unclosed to declare, “Then I will eat when I see him.”
“And how do you think he will feel when he learns you have been starving
yourself?”
Aimée turned her head to stare directly at her. “My mama’s family is rich and
powerful. My father will kill him, and then my mother’s family will kill you.”
Conrad shuddered. The child was unbearable. Ever since Millicent pulled away the
cover from her head and he’d heard her first scream the journey had been a living
nightmare. He’d planned a slow seduction, an initiation into the pleasures he wanted
Millicent to accept, but he’d been unable to do anything much. The child was a poor
traveller, and the coach had to stop every few miles for her to retch.
“We should just leave her here,” he said.
Millicent turned to him, her face contemptuous in its anger. “If she comes to any
harm Charles will kill you. Perhaps kill us both. This girl is the delight of his life, his
only softness. It’s our only guarantee of being left alone.”
“Won’t he guess what you wish to do?”
Millicent shook her head. “He never mentions Aunt Mary, but he’ll remember when
he has word. And Auntie will look after Aimée until he gets there. It will stop him
pursuing us.”
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Conrad didn’t even try to stop his lip curling in a sneer. “I don’t think so, my dear.
He won’t dare to follow himself, and the thought of that delicate hand wielding a blade is
enough to make me die laughing.” He didn’t feel at all like laughing, but he might muster
a chuckle if he saw that lily-white hand curled around the hilt of anything other than a
dress sword. “He’ll employ someone to chase us. The child is our guarantee.”
“Then we will threaten him. Once we’ve left port he won’t be able to touch us.”
Conrad wasn’t sure he wanted to touch Millicent after this nightmare journey.
However, he’d made his plans and burned his boats. All his property, all that he had left,
was converted to cash, and sunk into this last venture. He needed Millicent’s portion and
once he married her, he would get it.
It wouldn’t be a day too soon. He allowed his gaze to roam over her sweet body, a
body he’d only had once. Fervent kisses weren’t enough to keep his libido quiet, and he’d
spent the last few days in a fever of frustration. It hadn’t helped his mood. He consoled
himself by thinking of the punishment he would inflict on Millicent when she was finally
in his power. Planning it made his mouth go dry. It had been too long.
He watched her breasts swell over her tightly laced stays when she bent down to
coax her niece to take a little food. Much too long.
“Just a little potato,” Millicent pleaded, but Aimée kept her mouth shut.
Conrad’s taste never ran to children, other he would have had something else to
threaten the child with. If she’d been his, he would have rid himself of her long ago. He
had a daughter somewhere, he remembered with a vague recollection of blue eyes and
yellow hair. He’d found her mother a sad disappointment, but he hoped Millicent would
be better.
When he’d delicately approached the subject, she responded with enthusiasm. She
was pleasant to kiss, promising more. She’d allowed him to touch the goods, take her
once in a disappointingly conventional way, but he hadn’t got any further.
It suited him for now, apart from the longing to let go and take her exactly as he
wanted her. But this way he wouldn’t forget himself, something he tended to do with
distressing regularity. It seemed he could only control his urges up to a point.
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Millicent managed to get a spoonful of potato past the child’s mouth. Aimée
reluctantly swallowed. Then she retched, but there was no result.
Both Millicent and Conrad heaved a sigh of relief.
Aimée seemed to have discovered her appetite, because she opened her mouth for
the next spoonful. Conrad watched, wondering if Petherbridge would mind if he put the
brat over his knee, knowing it was impossible. At least he was reasonably sure of getting
rid of her before they crossed the ocean. If they were forced to take her with them, he
might commit murder. He might still. If he dropped her over the side part-way across the
Atlantic, who but one person would care?
Perhaps there were consolations, after all.
Millicent was murmuring soft words of encouragement to the child. Conrad closed
his eyes, imagining she was murmuring to him. “Just one more, darling,” Millicent said,
and in his head Conrad imagined she was begging him, but not for food. It would be
sweet. Once he had introduced her, initiated her, he knew she would enjoy herself hugely.
He was sure of it. And even if she did not, he would have enough money to indulge
himself elsewhere. That was another draw for him, to go and live in his worthless
plantation. There were slaves. The very word made him salivate.
Conrad swallowed. He had to stay in control, at least for now.
Aimée leaned forward and was copiously sick.
Charles woke up early, when the first fingers of light crept across the sky. He turned
his head immediately, seeing the glimmer of fair hair on the pillow. He’d spent the past
week in solitary anguish, and now, just because she was here, his heart was lighter.
Careful not to wake her, he rose from his hard bed on the floor and dressed. He
didn’t make tea, as he usually did, but folded his bedding and left the room quietly. He
locked her in, and shoved the key under the door. He felt safer that way. He didn’t like to
leave her at all, but it had to be done.
Outside the house, he glanced up at the window Perdita was sleeping behind. His
room had two windows, both grimy with coal dust and accumulated dirt. If he’d cleaned
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them, it would have made his room stand out like a beacon in a thunderstorm. As it was,
he’d smuggled in items that would be luxuries to most of the other tenants, but were
necessities to him. Decent food, clean linen sheets and blankets, a few books and
newspapers. Wax candles instead of stinking rushlights or oil lamps had been another, all
smuggled in nondescript parcels and bundles. Perhaps he had something to thank his
father for. Those subsistence weeks in the country had been useful, after all. Much as
he’d hated every moment.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and set out for the docks, thinking about silver
gilt hair and blue eyes.
Liverpool was at the mouth of the Mersey, a broad river subject to tidal flows. Since
the first dock was built earlier in the century its prosperity increased and now it rivalled
Bristol for size and prosperity. Soon it might even threaten London’s pre-eminence
amongst ports. The house Charles found lodgings in was one of a terraced row, only
broken when a road led off the main Duke Street. The brick had dimmed to smutty black,
and touching the wall meant black fingers, but the fresh air from the sea swept along the
roads this close to the river. Charles felt a familiar rush of exhilaration when the whiff of
salt reached the back of his throat.
Early though it was, other men headed the same way as Charles. Some nodded to
him in greeting. An itinerant worker with a trade—a docker—come north to take
advantage of the fast-growing trade here, they’d accepted him with a shrug and a smile,
or sometimes a scowl.
He stopped at a bakery he trusted and bought a meat pie for his breakfast. After this
was over, he’d order a crusty, fragrant beefsteak pie from his cook in London. He missed
her pies. These soggy, poorly filled pastry cases were a poor substitute. And he was
extremely sharp set at the end of every day.
His dandy image made him work even harder at his physical fitness. He practised
every day at swordplay, with the associated exercises, allowing his body to be both
supple and strong. It was just as well. He’d found a job as a docker only after hoisting a
crate of tea on to his shoulders and carrying it on to a ship. That was followed by several
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other crates. Only at the end of the day had Irish Chas given him a few coins and promise
of work on the next day. Dockers worked irregularly, and came and went, although the
best gangs were fairly consistent. It enabled him to get a job, and make his enquiries,
without too many questions being asked. Careful to remain as taciturn as he could, and
use a thick Cockney accent when he spoke, Charles was reasonably sure anyone watching
the docks or the ships wouldn’t connect him with the effete Marquess of Petherbridge.
His aunt knew him well, and so, now, did Perdita.
Charles set to shouldering today’s burdens. This close to sailing, the passengers’
luggage had begun to arrive. Every time he took another case, he scanned the pile that
was left for a name, or a piece he recognised. He would try to see as many as he could
before the ship sailed. And when the passengers embarked in the morning of sailing, he
would be there.
A slaver lay next to the ship bound for Virginia, prosperous from the Triple Trade.
Sugar and cotton in one direction, slaves in the other. Then beads and trinkets for the
African trade, with a smattering of firearms and well-tempered swords. This one was
headed for Africa. There was little chance of Millicent accompanying Berrington there.
He heaved up another travelling trunk, cursing the people who had enough money to
fill them to capacity. That would include himself, but not today. This one felt as if it was
weighed down with rocks. With Irish Chas’s attention on him, Charles knew he mustn’t
linger. He began to hit his stride, heading for the Virginia ship when he heard a call from
behind him. “Not that one!” Irish Chas called. “That’s for the coaster!”
Charles pivoted and headed for the small coastal vessel squashed in between the two
larger ships. Liverpool still had a lot of coastal trade, and many travellers preferred to use
the sea routes to the often terrible roads.
He had not considered the coastal vessel. It wasn’t heading for Scotland, so the
runaways were unlikely to use such a vessel to escape him. But it would do no harm to
check. He suspected the trunk was another test. The bulky docker liked to keep his team
on their toes, test their strength and sometimes he would stop one, and show him the
burden he was carrying was in truth rocks.
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Then the others would laugh. It had only happened to Charles once, but he had only
been here a week. Just under a week. It was probably time it happened to him again.
The ship was fitted out with several passenger cabins. Charles carried the trunk, a
battered leather one with nothing distinctive about it, except for the paper label carrying
the name and the direction of the passengers. He always skimmed the labels, but never
assumed Berrington would be stupid enough to use his real name. This one was labelled
“Viner, Salisbury.” Charles sighed, thinking of his home in Somersetshire. He’d planned
to spend a few quiet weeks with Aimée there, just the two of them, before visiting Blyth
Court and perhaps embarking on the next part of his life. He still hoped it would happen.
And the visit to Blyth Court looked increasingly unlikely, unless it was to return Perdita
to her relatives.
Charles was aware that he might have to marry Perdita, just to restore her good
name. To his utter surprise, he wasn’t distressed by that notion. He had studiously
avoided marrying again, after the disaster of his first venture, and now, when he was
ready to undertake the task, he had been looking for a young, malleable female, one with
enough intelligence to provide the help he needed to run his estates and a childbearing
body.
Not a woman nearly his own age, who could turn him inside out with a look, make
him feel like a boy again when she smiled. If he married her, that would be no marriage
of convenience. At least on his part. He still wasn’t sure how she felt about him. Perhaps
he would find out in the next couple of days. That was all they had left here, and he
wasn’t at all sure he would have time afterwards.
The cabins had paper labels tacked on to them, with the names of the passengers.
Having discovered the Viner cabin and deposited his burden Charles took his time,
studying the other names on the doors. Quite a few couples. One family, husband and
wife in one cabin, children in another.
Nobody he knew. But he didn’t expect to. He needed to get on to the other ship, the
Queen Caroline, bound for Virginia. If Berrington were to take passage on any of the
ships in the docks, Charles would put money on it being that one.
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He disembarked, striding easily over the plank connecting the ship to the shore.
There were no rope-protected walkways for the dockers. If you fell, you sank or swam.
And many did. More sank than swam.
He hoisted a valise, and headed for the Virginia ship. This was a very different
vessel. It was primarily for passengers, and the labels for the passengers on this ship had
directions as well as names, so the loaders could find them easily.
Charles was interrupted by a voice behind him. “Good at reading, aren’t ya?” The
twang was unmistakable. Irish Chas.
Charles turned to face him. “Yes, I can read.”
“Useful, that. Not all my men can. Might mean an extra bob or two.”
“Thanks.”
Charles turned back to the ship, relief flooding through his body. He’d known Irish
Chas was watching him. He’d worried that Irish Chas was paid by Berrington to watch
out for strangers. Perhaps he was overly worried. He was desperate to save his daughter,
desperate to have her back, and he’d been so careful to stay hidden. If he’d known for
sure which ship it would be, he would have called the authorities, used his own authority,
but that wouldn’t help. Aimée could have her life taken away in seconds. Then, although
Berrington wouldn’t escape, neither would he. Or Aimée. The only chance he had was to
take them by surprise.
He dumped the cases and strolled back through the corridors of the ship. If anyone
caught him, he would claim to be lost. They would think he was thieving, but since he
had no booty on him, they could search him if they wished. They would find nothing.
Charles found nothing, either. Several families, but in every cabin he looked into,
nothing he recognised.
Back on the dockside, the heap of luggage had reduced, and only a few items
remained. Charles picked up the remainder.
Then his hand stilled. He knew this case. He was sure of it.
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Charles didn’t stop until he reached the cabin. Then he moved out of sight of the
door. This was Millicent’s case. It was her dressing case, and he knew it was full of
bottles, combs and necessaries for the lady of fashion. It was also heavy. How typical of
his vain sister to take this on her elopement! Her initials graced the lid, and a small crest
he knew very well. He should do; it was his own crest.
Charles took a swift look around the cabin. It was comfortably laid out, with a bed
screwed to the floor and two bunks set against the wall. There was a dressing table, on
which he put the case, and another trunk, one he didn’t know, graced the floor. Unable to
resist he aimed a swift kick at it. It skittered across the floor, and he leaned forward and
tested the weight. It was far too light for the amount of clothes it ought to contain. He
could thank his employment of the last few days to tell him that. Bought for show, then.
Millicent and Berrington probably had their worldly possessions on their persons.
Wherever they are.
He had them.
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Chapter Ten
“I’ve found them.”
Perdita stared at Charles. He was transformed, his face glowing with relief and joy.
She didn’t stint in her smile. “I’m so glad!”
Without thinking, she ran to him, and threw her arms around him. After a moment of
stunned recognition, his arms swept around her and he lifted her off her feet. His laugh,
full bodied and unconfined, was one she was glad to join in with.
He swung her around, to the great danger of a nearby chair, and set her down again.
Only then did he appear to recognise their intimate position, but instead of releasing her,
he stared down into her face, his smile disappearing, but with such a look of arrested
attention she found herself unable to move.
Then he bent his head and kissed her.
Perdita didn’t resist. There was no reason for her to do so; she wanted it as much as
he seemed to. Gladly she opened for him and let him in.
He accepted with a generous sweep of his tongue, surging in where she opened.
Filling her mouth with himself. Perdita felt safe and wanted. For the first time in years
someone really wanted her for herself. Not because she was wealthy, or a relative, or
titled, but because she was Perdita Garland. It felt delicious. She would never regret
sharing this adventure, whatever became of it.
He drew back suddenly, and released her, stepping back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t do
that.”
“You’ve done it before.”
“Not in these circumstances.” He lifted one hand to hold her off, and walked away,
towards the window. “We have no chaperones, no one to stop us doing what we want to
do. We have to keep our distance.”
“Why?”
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He gave a short, strained laugh. “Because—because I find you immensely attractive,
and I cannot allow myself to take advantage. Because—” He paused.
“Because you’re afraid to leap,” she finished for him. “Because you want to devote
yourself to your daughter. Because you don’t want to love again.”
He grimaced. “Some of that is right. I was looking for a wife I could come to a
civilised agreement with, it’s true. But I’m reconsidering. And it’s because of you.”
Perdita wouldn’t look away, so he did, staring out of the window, his back half-turned to
her. He lifted his hand and drove it through his unruly hair, lifting his head to stare up at
the sky. “If I marry for affection, for companionship, I want to know my future partner.
Perdita, I can’t deny I’m attracted to you, but I don’t want to force you into anything. I
want to get to know you first, if I can.”
“Many people don’t know each other at all when they marry.” It was a half-hearted
comment. Perdita felt the same way herself.
“Perdita, this is a hell of a bind. We might have to marry, if the story becomes
known. I’m hoping to extricate you from this with your name safe, but know I’m willing,
and know that I will do it properly. But I would like to give both of us a choice.”
“I understand.” So why did her heart sink when she heard his plans to free her from
any obligations?
Perdita moved first, heading for the fire, where the kettle was singing cheerfully.
When she took a sneaky peep at him, she saw him gripping the windowsill, knuckles
white with tension. She tended the kettle and poured it on to the fresh tealeaves in the pot.
She wanted him, too. Seeing him like this, unadorned, in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat,
she wanted him more than ever. That kiss, brief as it was, increased her desire.
They were adults. They could cope with this, but now their desire had been
articulated it would be harder. The day after tomorrow the ship would sail, and this
interlude would be over, one way or another.
Perdita poured the tea and took a dish over to him. He took it by the opposite side of
the saucer, careful not to touch her. Perdita retreated and went to sit on the chair by the
fire, pulling the panel of wood that served as a screen closer to her. It was another hot
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day, and the room would surely be more comfortable without added heat. “Can we get
out of here?” she asked.
He turned back, his face once more blandly smooth, the saucer steady in his hand. “I
thought we might. Would you like to travel to Virginia?”
The shock made her almost drop her own tea. “What?”
His laugh rang around the small room. “Don’t worry, we won’t go. But I took
Millicent’s dressing case aboard the ship bound for Virginia today. The passengers are to
embark an hour before sailing at the latest, so I thought if there were tickets to be had, I
could purchase some and we could walk aboard, instead of having to sneak aboard.”
“Won’t it be expensive?”
He shook his head. “Not particularly. I have an account here, if you remember. More
than adequate funds. If I can’t find them at the inns, we can go aboard tomorrow, collect
Aimée and disembark before it sails.”
“What about your sister?”
His mouth firmed into a hard line. “I’ll give her a choice. This was never about her. I
want my daughter back.”
“You’ll leave your sister to Berrington?”
He shrugged. “It’s her choice.”
Perdita thought wildly. He couldn’t do that, he couldn’t! But she didn’t want to tell
him the truth, how she knew what Berrington could do to Millicent. “I thought we were
to lend each other propriety,” she said. “Millicent and I.” It was the best she could think
of.
He dropped his hand by his side. “I hope we can do that. If we cannot, I’ll escort you
to your aunt’s and leave the matter in her hands. We can employ a maid and a groom, and
I can be your brother until we reach your aunt’s house. You said she would make an
excuse for you, if necessary. I’m hoping we won’t have to do that, but Millicent is a
grown woman, and I can force her to do nothing.”
“I see.” Perhaps she could persuade Millicent not to go with Berrington without
revealing her shameful secret. “He is nearly penniless. This plantation he owns is the last
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of his assets. His ancestral home is falling down about his ears and all he has done is sell
the contents. He has the small amount of capital he uses to make himself appear solvent,
but if he hasn’t made sure of that the duns will have it as soon as they can.”
“I can’t believe I was foolish enough to allow Millicent to persuade me!” He turned
and looked at her directly. “The truth is, I didn’t care enough. I don’t know my family
well, Perdita, and when I met my sister and spent some time with her, I was appalled.”
It mirrored Perdita’s feeling when she met Aimée. “Why?”
“Millicent is spoiled and indulged. If she has any intelligence, it’s been subsumed
under constant dissatisfactions and demands for more.”
“Your mother lost you to France. What is more natural than that she should dedicate
herself to her remaining child?” His mother had died a few years after his father, after
Charles left for the Grand Tour. Long enough to indulge her remaining child.
He regarded her in silence for half a minute before saying, “Then it’s my fault,
then?”
“Of course not!” Perdita turned back to the fire impatiently, picking up the cloth to
grip the handle of the teapot to pour another dish of tea. “If anything, all this is mine. I
should have told you what he did to me.”
“What?”
Startled, Perdita realised she had given more of herself away than she intended to.
The teapot wavered in her hand and almost before she lost her grip, he was by her side,
rescuing the teapot, and placing it gently on its stand by the fire. He took her hands in his,
gripping them firmly. Perdita welcomed the reassurance. “What is it, Peri?”
The use of the name he’d bestowed on her made the contact more intimate. Perdita
wanted to tell him, but was terrified. The soft, friendly expression would change into
distaste and disgust.
Whatever her feelings, she couldn’t tell him. He was anxious enough without her
adding to it. Perhaps she would tell him after he had his daughter safe. “Nothing. The
teapot slipped, that was all.”
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He stared into her eyes, and it was all Perdita could do not to look away. Eventually
he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead in a gentle salute. “Take care. I
forget you’re not used to this.”
“Neither are you.”
He grinned, releasing her. “No.” He spun on one heel and went towards the door.
“Shall we go and buy our tickets? The dockers won’t be about; they’ll be home for their
dinners.”
“You should eat,” she said, immediately remembering what he must have done that
morning. Physical labour made a man sharp-set.
“I did. Have you?”
“I had some fruit, and some bread and cheese.”
“Good. We’ll pick something else up while we’re out. How’s your head?”
She smiled, able to reassure him on this at least. “Much better. It only hurts when I
touch it.”
She didn’t bother with the cloak. The sun blazed down outside and Perdita paused in
front of the window to try to see her reflection as she tucked her hair up into the cap he’d
bought her. With her signature bright hair, she had to tuck as much of it out of sight as
she could. With a “tsk,” she found another strand, then jumped when she felt his hand
touch her shoulder. “Will you let me help?”
She bowed her head and felt him tuck the wayward strands into the cap. She hadn’t
braided her hair or tried to put it up that morning, because the lump on her head was too
tender to bear pins or tautness. “It’s as well the cap is so large,” she commented. “My
hair is too distinctive. Someone might see it.”
“Your hair is lovely,” he said softly, with no emphasis on the words, “but you’re
right, it is distinctive. We’ll buy you a hat at the pawnshop.”
“I could stay in,” she offered.
“Better with both of us,” he said briefly. “Ready?”
She lifted her head and turned to him. “Completely.”
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Chapter Eleven
It was pleasant to get out of the confining room, even into this place. Perdita was
fascinated. At every corner, the sweet smell of stale beer floated out of open doorways,
and in between were the mingled scents of human waste, baking bread and for some
reason, cooking cabbage. It must take some getting used to, but the people passing by
didn’t wrinkle their noses as Perdita did, nor did they seem to notice when the smells
became stronger.
There was a large shop decorated with the three hanging balls that denoted a
pawnbroker’s. “Did you know the pawnbroker’s balls are derived from the Medici family
crest?” she asked.
He laughed. “Why should that be?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Laughing still, he led her into the shop. Perdita was awed by the number of items on
display, but Charles left her to gawp while he went to the counter and demanded to see
straw hats.
Gowns hung above them, together with a collection of the most diverse articles
Perdita had ever seen. It would take a lifetime to examine them all. Rows of books with
dusty covers, clusters of kitchen pots and pans, piles of linens, sheets, towels and cloths
piled up together in order.
Charles interrupted her staring, coming to stand before her with two nondescript
straw hats. “Choose one,” he suggested.
Perdita studied them both and chose the one with the widest brim, which also
smelled freshest. Charles gave the other back and put the hat on her head, tying it under
her chin with the frayed satin ribbons attached to each side. Tilting his head, he stared at
her, his gaze dispassionate, before reaching out and adding a slight tilt to the brim.
“Charming,” he assured her.
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Perdita laughed, accepting the compliment with a wry twist of her mouth. “I’ve been
better,” she reminded him.
“Never.” There was such sincerity in his voice she could almost believe him. In her
shabby gown with the sturdy leather shoes and plain straw hat, he could still make her
feel like a leader of fashion. She tipped him a cheeky smile and turned with a flounce of
her skirts. He tossed a coin to the shopkeeper and followed her.
Outside Perdita was brought to a precipitate halt by a giant. A broad chest met her
direct gaze, and she had to lift her chin and stare up to see the face of its owner. The face
was broad, cracked by a gap-toothed smile. “This your woman?” he boomed, in a guttural
accent Perdita was only beginning to understand.
“Aye,” she heard from behind her. “She’s mine.”
“Better look after this one, she’s a pretty piece.”
“I know it.” Charles came to stand beside her, slipping his arm around her waist.
Perdita took her cue, leaning against him.
The man smiled more broadly, something Perdita hadn’t thought possible before.
“What’s your name?”
Charles hugged her closer. “Jane.”
The man stepped back and executed a clumsy bow. “Pleased ter make yer
acquaintance, ma’am.”
Perdita knew her part. She curtseyed, making it awkward. She found it was difficult
to make it so awkward. In the normal course of events, she might curtsey several times a
day and she didn’t think about it. This time she had to think, and deliberately wobbled a
little when she stood up, rocking on the balls of her feet. Then she began to lose her
balance for real. Laughing, Charles caught her with one arm and hauled her back to his
side. “Not long left court.” He gave a broad wink.
“Ah,” the other man said knowingly.
Charles turned to Perdita. “’Tis Irish Chas,” he told her. “The gang master.”
Perdita gave the man a flirtatious look through her lashes. “A well set up
gentleman.”
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Irish Chas smiled. “’Tis very well spoken you are, m’lady.”
A shot of alarm went through Perdita. She hadn’t thought to disguise her accent, as
Charles had done. “I was a maid in a big house once. The lady taught me to speak like I
do.”
Irish Chas nodded sagely, his double chin sinking into the rolls of muscle on his
chest. “Aye, I’ve met others. But I’ll wager Cockney Chas here suits you better, and
treats you better than a gentleman would.”
“Yes,” Perdita said, playing the tongue-tied woman. She thought it was for the best.
If she opened her mouth again she might really make a stupid mistake. She leaned against
Charles, lowering her head so the brim of her hat shaded her face. He hugged her tightly.
“Thought we’d take a walk,” he said.
“Will I see you down the Thistle later?” asked the big man.
Charles paused, and then Perdita felt a touch under her chin. She lifted her head to
stare at him and received a swift kiss. The Liverpudlian burst out laughing. “Guess not!”
he exclaimed, and touching his fingers to his greasy forelock, strolled away.
Charles grinned. “Had to get rid of him somehow.” His voice was low, back to his
usual modulated tones.
“I don’t mind,” Perdita breathed back. “I’m getting used to you kissing me in
public.”
His smile was warm and intimate. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it. You don’t like it,
do you?”
She lowered her eyelids, unable to meet his gaze. “With you, it’s different.”
He drew back and took his arm away from her waist. “Come, my dear,” he said, in a
louder tone, the flat accent returning to his voice. “We ’ave things to do.”
For a moment, Perdita felt bereft. Perhaps she had spoken too hastily. She said
nothing but began to walk.
At the end of Duke Street, they turned left, on to Hanover Street, which led directly
to the docks. Charles looped his arm through Perdita’s and they strolled without haste
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down towards the forest of masts thronging the quayside. As they passed the dock,
Charles murmured, “It’s that one.”
It took Perdita a moment to distinguish one ship from another, but she followed the
direction his finger was pointing and saw the vessel, the Queen Caroline, a fine, three-
masted vessel readied for sailing. She saw sailors moving about the deck in a businesslike
fashion, tiny marionettes at this distance, but she could assess the size of the ship by
them. “I’ve never been to sea, apart from along the coast,” she said.
“You’ve not been on the Continent?” He sounded surprised.
“Many ladies don’t. Their brothers have all the pleasure of the Grand Tour. We’re
hurried out of the schoolroom straight up the aisle to meet our life partners. If we marry a
man who travels, we might be lucky enough to see another country, otherwise it is often
to another estate, to run it and to bear a quiverful of children.”
“Not with me.” The murmur was so quiet she barely heard it. Perdita turned her head
sharply, so he had to move to avoid being caught by her hat brim. He smiled blandly. “I
still have extensive holdings in France, and there is a villa in Italy.”
“Where in Italy?” Perdita knew she had put too much eagerness into her voice, but
she had always longed to see Italy.
“Tuscany,” he said. “A villa and a vineyard.” They stared at each other, neither
daring to take the next step. She wanted to go, he wanted to take her. She saw it in his
eyes, as clearly as if he’d said it aloud.
Abruptly he looked away and quickened his pace. Perdita was forced to scramble to
keep up with him, but in the sensible leather shoes he’d bought for her she found it easier
than the fashionable, heeled shoes she usually wore.
The office was soon reached, but she laid her hand on his sleeve. “If it’s the same
clerk, I’ll hang back. He might recognise me.”
Charles nodded and opened the door for her, following quickly. Perdita glanced at
the front desks and shook her head. “He’s not the same one.”
“Good.”
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The office was full again of chattering, busy people, as it was on her previous visit.
Perdita found it a bit dizzying, so many people crammed into the available space, but
she’d come across the phenomenon before in different circumstances so she knew she
would survive the experience.
They found a queue and joined it, standing in silence until their turn came. Charles
took the lead. “Two tickets for the Colonies, please.”
The clerk glanced up. “What kind of cabins?”
“Steerage,” Charles said.
The clerk looked up properly then, and removed his glasses to stare at Charles.
“We’ve a ship leaving the day after tomorrow, but there aren’t many cabins left. I can
offer you two places at ten guineas each.”
Perdita hissed through her teeth. That was a year’s salary for an upper servant. The
price would not include “extras” like food, she guessed.
The clerk glanced at her, grinning. “You can work your passage. If you want, you
can contract to work when you get there, and earn your passage that way, but that’s
something we can’t arrange for you.” He sat back and picked up his spectacles. “Well?”
Charles pulled a purse from his pocket and opened it, carefully counting out twenty
guineas. Perdita was amused to note that some of the money was in silver and coppers,
just as if Charles had saved it all himself. There was a little money left and Charles put
that back in the purse. He pushed the money towards the clerk. “Well?” he said, in
exactly the same tone.
The clerk raised his eyebrows before reaching out for the nearest sovereign and
testing it with his teeth. He examined the coin through narrowed eyes, talking to it rather
than to Charles and Perdita. “You and your luggage need to be aboard by six on Thursday
morning.” He looked up from his contemplation of the coins. “The voyage’ll take about
six weeks, give or take for the weather.”
Charles hugged Perdita close and grinned, as though this was good news. “We’ve
bought a little farm. A new life, eh?”
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Perdita mumbled a reply, knowing her accent wouldn’t pass muster and buried her
face in Charles’s coat, as though embarrassed by the attention. Her hat was shoved back
on her head, and she pulled the brim down when she drew away from him, keeping it as
low as she dared without looking furtive. Charles reached out and chucked her under the
chin. “It’s all a bit much for ’er, though we’ve been plannin’ this for years. Ain’t it,
love?”
The clerk was scribbling furiously in the book before him and on two pieces of paper
that he gave to them when he had done. “Tickets,” he said. “If you lose them, or they’re
stolen, come here at once. We’re open early, the day of sailing, and since there’s a ship
sailing most days, that means early starts.”
He gave them a quick smile and they moved away. Glancing back Perdita saw he
had already forgotten them, absorbed with the next person in the queue. The money had
been put away, the ticket book closed and put neatly by his side.
Charles and Perdita left the office and Perdita took a few breaths of the salt scented
air. “Who are we?”
Charles shot her a grin. “Mr. and Mrs. Andrews. The first name I thought of.”
He led her away from the office and the docks, back up Hanover Street. “I need to
call in at the bank. That almost cleaned me out of funds, and we may need more before
Thursday.” He turned and faced her. “Perdita, I want to introduce you to the manager, in
case for any reason we’re separated.”
She felt alarmed. “Do you plan us to be?”
“No. That’s why I want to take you on the ship. Unless you don’t want to go? But I
thought you might help to persuade Millicent. I won’t make her stay, but if we can offer
her this way out, she might be brought to reconsider.”
“Of course I want to go with you!”
“Thank you.” And in the street, in full view of anyone who cared to watch, he kissed
her. A gentle, closed-mouth kiss, but so intimate Perdita felt herself tumbling into his
world, as though nothing else mattered. He drew back and they stared at each other, lost
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to everything for a fraught moment out of time. It took an effort to wrench her attention
away from him.
He seemed to feel the same, for it was a moment before he began to walk again,
reaching for her hand and tucking it through his arm. The gesture, necessary for their
masquerade, seemed to mean more than that. Perdita felt it strongly, but wasn’t sure
Charles did.
Despite her strong determination to remain apart, not to become involved, Perdita
was becoming increasingly attracted to him, increasingly sinking under his spell. When
they parted she would find it harder to resume her life.
Firmly she reminded herself of the reason for all this and scolded herself for
forgetting the child who must be frightened and desperate to see her father again.
At the bank, Charles requested a private interview with the manager, and got it after
having a note delivered to him. Once inside, he lifted his head, and seemed to grow a
couple of inches. “This is Lady Perdita Garland,” he told Mr. Ireland. “She has
unwittingly become involved in this whole mess. If for some reason she comes to you,
please ensure she has everything she needs to reach a place of safety. She may draw on
my money as she pleases.” Mr. Ireland, a man of middle years and middle stature,
dressed in plain but well made clothes struck Perdita as a very solid person, a bank
manager to trust.
Perdita was asked for her signature. Slightly bewildered, she gave it, and received
ten guineas in small change. Charles received a little more, but not too much. If he was
robbed, he didn’t want to have a suspiciously large amount with him, he explained.
Perdita enjoyed two cups of good coffee before she left the manager’s office. Once
out, Charles again became the working man, his head bowed a little to avoid the glances
of his superiors, some of whom glared at him as he left. “The manager will say we are
carrying messages,” he explained in a low voice. They exited the bank’s premises quickly
and walked up the street to where workmen were busy about a new building. “The new
town hall,” Charles explained when he saw Perdita’s curious glance. “A fine building.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Liverpool must be very prosperous.”
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He frowned. “Slaves, cotton and tawdry goods, mainly, but there’s also tea and
spices. And as you’ve seen, the emigration trade.”
“Trade? That seems to be a strange way of putting it.”
“Not really.” Arm in arm they strolled past the classically inspired building, a
reflection of Liverpool’s newly acquired glory. “Human traffic. It seems the Colonies
have a great need of it, and for the poorer citizen it’s a good way of making a living.”
“It must be a wrench, leaving everything behind and starting again.”
“It must.”
Perdita reflected what it would mean to her to have to leave her family, her friends
and the places she was familiar with, and decided it would take a great deal to persuade
her to take such a step. It would be exciting, though, to start again.
A clean slate, a new beginning. Some people had a lot to leave behind, things they
hoped wouldn’t follow them. Berrington, for example.
At the remembrance she shuddered slightly. Feeling the slight pressure of his hand,
she turned her head to look at him and saw his look of concern. Charles really was an
attractive man, particularly without all the maquillage and fripperies. His shoulders were
broad, his face clear complexioned and handsome. Perdita smiled her reassurance. “I’m
all right. Something just disturbed my thoughts, that’s all.”
He frowned, but said no more. They walked down to their lodgings in complete
amity, stopping at Charles’s favourite bakery for some pies for their dinner. Leaving the
establishment, Charles caught Perdita smiling to herself. “What is it?”
“Just the thought of where we are, what we’re doing. It seems unreal.”
He moved closer to the wall and turned her to face him. “God knows I didn’t want
anyone else dragged into this,” he said, low but passionate, “but if it could have been
anyone, I couldn’t have wished for a better companion.”
Without warning, he bent and kissed her. Perdita put her arms around him before she
was fully aware of what she was doing, opening her mouth under his. She felt the warmth
from the linen bundle that held the pies move against her shoulder, but ignored it, and
concentrated on what his mouth was doing to her. She wanted him.
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Across the street, Conrad let his gaze slip past the embracing couple to the forest of
masts thrusting up to the sky beyond. Soon, he thought. Soon he would be past this and
safe. Their passage was booked, and they would take the child aboard with them if his
contact didn’t appear to take her away. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do
with the brat in that case, but she had driven him to distraction, and prevented his making
sure of Millicent. He had plans. She might fetch a good price in the brothels of Louisiana.
The world looked better to him than it had six months ago. When Perdita had
returned to society, he’d hoped to woo her again, try to persuade her their previous split
had been a misunderstanding, a mistake. He was even willing to take the blame, if it
meant he gained the ultimate prize. However, in Millicent he found someone better,
someone richer, and someone he thought might share his particular—interests. In any
case, once he had her in the new world, in his personal part of it, she would have little
choice but to comply.
The day after tomorrow his new life would begin, and this time he would make sure
it lasted. With Millicent’s portion, he could bring new heart to his failing plantation. He
would tell her brother in no uncertain terms what Millicent’s portion would bring her,
what he would do to the child if he didn’t receive it. It was as good as in his bank
account.
Berrington let his gaze slip over the couple, still embracing in the middle of the street
and his mouth lengthened in a sneer. It was also good to know there were people worse
off than he was or ever would be. This couple, dressed in worn, probably second or third
hand clothes, would never know what a night at Drury Lane meant, what it felt like to
wear expensive, custom-made clothes in fine materials, what a fine French wine tasted
like. Small beer and cheap lodgings were their lot, together with hard work, and probably
a houseful of children. Let them canoodle, for all the good it would do them. The man
was tall, and the woman was diminutive, almost completely enveloped in his arms, only
the skirt of her drab petticoat showing, and the top of her dingy straw hat. Still, they
seemed to be enjoying their rare moment of leisure.
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Conrad watched them for a moment longer before turning away to return to the
lodgings where an impatient woman and a mewling child waited for him. Only a few
days. Then there would be the woman, himself, and as much money as he could screw
out of her disgustingly wealthy brother. He would enjoy that. Threats were delightfully
rewarding.
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Chapter Twelve
Perdita and Charles separated and stared at each other. He removed his hand from
her neck, which he had been caressing through the kiss, but kept one arm around her
waist. She kept her hands on his upper arms. Perdita was the first to speak. “Let’s go
home,” she whispered in a voice gone hoarse with dryness.
He said nothing, but turned and slowly led the way back to the house.
Back in the room, Perdita moved to the fire and stirred the coals into life with the
poker that was propped up next to it. She found the water and took the kettle to it, moving
by rote, as though her body was separate from her mind.
Mentally she went through the kiss. It had seared through her, unlike any kiss she
ever received before, even from him. Perdita kept her head down, feeling the silence
between them like a living thing, separating them and joining them together.
She could no longer deny that she wanted him. This was too dangerous, especially in
one room, with one bed.
She shook her head. That was foolish. That was what her mother would think, or her
brother. Not her. She had nothing to fear, because she had nothing to lose. Not any more.
Lifting her head she deliberately looked at him, where he stood, seemingly engrossed
in laying out their meagre repast. He moved one of the thick, white china plates to the
left, and Perdita knew then that he’d been as affected as she was.
She moved forward, after placing the kettle on the hook above the coals. He looked
up and smiled, a casual smile of welcome, but it warmed her through to her bones.
As usual, he pulled out a chair for her and seated her politely before taking his own
seat. Only then did he meet her gaze directly, and then briefly.
They ate in near silence, their exchanges being purely trivial. For the first time since
her arrival in Liverpool Perdita felt stilted and uncomfortable, although she knew why. It
was hard to hide desire, and she’d felt it in him when he’d pressed close to her. He
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wanted her, at least physically. And she wanted him, too. So much she could almost feel
his hot flesh against her, taste his salty sweat on her tongue.
No, it was the pies. Over-salted, probably to hide substandard meat. It was finely
minced meat, with great chunks of potato and onion to conceal its sparsity, but Perdita
was hungry enough to enjoy it, feeling the warmth fill her empty stomach.
There was even a second course. Apples from a dish, slightly shrivelled, because at
the end of the summer apples were from the store. The new crop would be ready in a
month. Perdita’s mouth watered when she thought of the orchards at Blyth Court, heavy
with fragrant fruit.
She looked up when someone shouting in the street outside brought her back to a
sense of reality. She met his eyes and flushed, feeling the heat under her skin. His gaze
was intense, although he looked away quickly.
Perdita couldn’t bear the awkwardness. “Charles, what have we got here?”
“I don’t know.” His voice was low.
“Would you rather wait until you have your daughter back? Can we be friends until
then?”
He lifted his eyes and the look she received was worth it. Gratitude, as though she
had released him from something. “I would appreciate that. I like you very much, Perdita.
If we have anything else, I don’t want it mixed up with this. I want to give us time, if
possible.”
“We’ll have time,” she assured him, and saw him reach for her, before letting his
hand fall back into his lap.
“One more day.”
“Yes. One more day.”
Perdita looked away when she heard the water boiling, and rose to go to the fire.
When he stood, she waved her hand vaguely. “No, let me. I’ll make the tea.” He sat back
in his chair.
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Feeling suddenly at home, a rare feeling for her, Perdita went to the stove and picked
up the cloth to wrap around the hot handle of the kettle. It wasn’t a large kettle, but full of
boiling water the weight was more than she was used to.
She felt the handle slip under the cloth and the weight of the water continued the
small initial movement. Before she could prevent it the handle slipped through the cloth,
and the boiling water spilled over her.
Perdita reacted quickly, dropping the kettle and jumping back to avoid what she
could, but Charles acted quicker.
A torrent of cold water doused her, hurled from the can by the door, forcing her to
close her eyes against the deluge. Then his arms went around her from behind and he
lifted her up, almost throwing her on to the bed on the opposite side of the small room.
He dragged her skirts up, and pulled at her garters, tearing the woollen stockings off her.
Perdita, stunned by the swiftness of the actions, came to herself and pulled the stocking
off the other leg.
They studied the damage. The boiling water had landed on her skirts, soaking
through the thin, worn fabric too quickly, but his quick actions saved her from serious
damage. Her legs were pinker than usual, but no welts, no scalds were apparent.
What was apparent were her scars. Perdita tried not to look at her legs usually, and
usually put on her stockings by herself by touch, only allowing her maid to tie off the
garters for her. She couldn’t bear to look at the damage.
The accident had caused some ugly scars. On her left leg the shinbone had penetrated
the skin, leaving a puckered scar, lividly white. Her legs had been cut by stones on her
fall, and not much attention had been given to their healing, once infection was
discounted, so the scars were worse than they might have been. Little white lines, raised
above what had been a smooth surface. The bone in the right leg had set a little
crookedly. Perdita knew it could have been worse. Any more and she would have been
left with a permanent limp, unable to walk or dance.
Ugly. So ugly Perdita couldn’t bear to look. She had forced herself to, once the
bandages and splints came off, determined to face what she had with determination and
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courage. Easier on her own. Violetta, now her brother’s wife, had seen them, and given
her massages which helped the muscle strain when she began to walk again. It had been
Violetta who bullied her into taking those first steps, and helped her to face society,
something Perdita was sure she never wanted to do again after her humiliation and then
her accident. Her mother had seen them, and Orlando. No one else, until now.
She didn’t want to look at him. He’d saved her from a scald, but reminded her just
why no man would take her, when he could have an unblemished, untouched woman.
She’d been foolish to consider it, she knew that.
“Thank you.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “I don’t think I’m badly hurt.
Silly of me.”
“No.” His voice was just as low. He stared at her legs and Perdita knew there was no
concealing them now. Many married couples rarely saw each other naked, and if they
did, they were in bed. She’d hoped to hide the evidence of her shame and her stupidity
with any future husband some way, any way.
“Dear God, how you must have suffered!” His low, throbbing tones held more than
pity.
More than he would know. The physical suffering had been penance for her, for the
stupid mistakes she’d made. “My horse had to be put down. I’ll never forgive myself for
that.”
He reached out, and touched her calf with his open palm. There was a scar there,
white and twisted. Without it she would have had a sweetly rounded calf. With the scar, it
was a travesty.
She moved, tried to withdraw but his touch became a grip. “No. Don’t. Trust me
enough, Peri, trust me to look.”
She was afraid of his reaction, afraid he would recoil, or more likely, gently
withdraw once it was clear she hadn’t done herself serious injury, at least this time. She
knew he would not be unkind, but was equally sure he would not be interested in her any
more. Who would, thinking of those ugly limbs wrapped with theirs, entwined with their
own?
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There was nothing left to lose. Under his hands, turned gentle once more, she made
herself relax.
“Dear God, I knew you’d had an accident, but not that it was this bad!” He slid his
hands over her lower legs, as though he could smooth the skin back to perfection. He felt
every knot, every scar.
He looked up at her and shocked her with his expression. His eyes glistened, and
there was no repulsion on his face. No desire either, but she would have been appalled
had she seen that. No man should desire a woman after seeing that. Deep compassion
remained, even sympathy.
Sympathy?
“I’ve always admired your courage, but I didn’t know until now just how brave you
are. Peri, these injuries must have been crippling.”
She forced a smile. It wavered, but she managed it. “Violetta helped me. She’s
Orlando’s wife. Where everyone else gave me pity and sympathy, she gave me backbone.
She forced me to stand, bullied me to walk. She also discovered that my doctor was
keeping me malingering for his own ends. It could have been a lot worse.”
“Thank God it wasn’t!” He seemed to mean it literally. If his hands hadn’t still been
on her legs Perdita would have tossed her wet skirts back down. She would have felt
more comfortable. What he did next shocked her to the core.
He bent and kissed one of the worst scars, his lips touching the wound like a healing
touch. Then he lifted his head and looked at her, getting to his feet. She watched him in
silence as he stripped off his neckcloth and undid the ties at the top of his shirt, pulling
the garment over his head. Bare-chested he stared at her, waiting for her reaction.
At first all Perdita saw was a strong male chest, the muscles moving under the skin
when he dropped his hands to his sides. Then she saw some silvery marks. She stood up
to look closer, forgetting propriety, forgetting everything but their presence and what he
was showing her.
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Threads of silver lightly scored his skin, forming lines not formed by nature. They
were hardly noticeable, until she looked closer. She reached out a hand, then snatched it
back. She wasn’t that far gone.
When she looked up at his face, he was smiling. “They were bad, once,” he told her,
in a voice so gentle she could hardly bear it. “I fell on an unguarded fire when I was a
toddler, barely walking. The nursemaid snatched me off the coals, but the damage was
done. The scars were bad all through my boyhood.”
“But they’re hardly noticeable!”
He took her hand in his. “They are bad still. In here.” He lifted their conjoined hands
to his head, touching one temple lightly. “I was ragged at school mercilessly for the
marks. My mother was ashamed of them, and never allowed me to go bare-chested, even
in front of my body servants. It took a long time to recover, but I did.”
“How did you do it?”
“I was compensated.” The answer was vague, but Perdita could guess what he
meant.
“Your wife? She didn’t care about the scars?”
He laughed bitterly. “You could say that.”
When he tugged on her hand, she allowed herself to be drawn forward, into his arms.
They folded around her, softly cherishing. Perdita let her head rest against his shoulder.
She could be comforted. Nothing else was possible now, but his skin felt warm against
her cheek and his arms comforting around her body. It was all she wanted, she told
herself. Anything else wasn’t worth considering.
Until she felt his fingers under her chin, tilting her head up. Knowing what was
coming she went willingly, and opened her mouth for him when his lips settled on hers.
Entwined together, bare chest to her thin gown, Perdita revelled in the hard, cherishing
body against hers, the soft, coaxing tongue teasing her into arousal.
Desire rose, sharp and needy. She wanted him. He couldn’t want her. Part of her
mind still couldn’t believe anyone would want her, having seen those terrible marks. But
she responded, accepting him, responding to his caresses. She smoothed her hands up and
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down his back, revelling in the bare skin under her palms. He felt wonderful, warm and
alive, muscles tensing when he tightened his hold on her.
Charles lifted his head slightly. “I want you, ma cherie,” he murmured, his breath hot
against her lips. “Will you come to bed with me?”
Perdita nodded and watched the warmth flood into his eyes. Still not quite believing
he could want her after seeing what her accident had done to her body, she stared at him,
wanting him. Not taking his gaze from her face, he released her to bring his hands around
to the front of her gown. He unhooked the fastenings, until her gown was undone to the
waist. A few more hooks and she could shrug it off.
It fell to the floor around her feet with a slap of wet fabric. Perdita stepped out of it,
and turned, feeling his hands go to the laces at the back of her stays.
The fichu tucked into her neckline had fallen with the gown. Perdita reached up and
undid the pins fastening her hair into a neat bun, taking each pin out carefully, glad she
hadn’t braided it. They were the only hairpins she had, and they only just did the job of
holding her fine, silky locks in place. Holding the pins, she turned back to him, and let
her stays fall. Her hands were steady, her mind sure. She had no doubts.
His expression had turned needy, his eyes blazing with desire. Perdita no longer
asked how or why, but just accepted. It was true. No one could fabricate that expression,
and it was all for her. She’d never seen it before on anyone, but inside, her body
responded, heating and dampening for him.
“I won’t hurt you,” he promised. “I want to love you, Peri, but I’ll leave you intact. I
want you to keep all the choices you had when you entered this room. I won’t restrict
you, Perdita, nor will I force you to any decision you might not want to take.”
She understood, and she warmed to his concern. A virgin could still make a good
marriage, could have her choice of men. But there was something he didn’t know. She
swallowed, summoning up the courage, afraid that look she wanted would soon turn to
distaste.
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“I’m not intact,” she said, and unable to watch the transformation in his face,
dropped her gaze. He might still want her, but the respect, the concern might be gone
now she had told him her shameful secret.
His fingers went under her chin again, forcing her to look.
There was no change, except an edge of concern. “You mean it?” She nodded, once.
“Perdita?”
Once more, she nodded.
Facing each other, in an unspoken pact both instinctively understood, they finished
disrobing. Perdita dropped her under-petticoat on the pile of discarded clothing, put the
precious hairpins on the small table by the bed, and turned back to him to remove her
shift, lifting it over her head in a sweep of fine linen.
They stared at each other. She’d known he was finely formed, supple muscle and
soft skin, but what she saw below his waist made her pause.
Gifted indeed. So gifted she had her doubts.
When she eventually looked back at his face, she saw anxiety had taken hold. “I told
you I had compensations,” he said wryly. “But Perdita, you’re so small, so delicate.”
Forcing down her fear she reached out one hand to him. “We can only try.”
“Oh, Peri!” His voice caught and he pulled on her hand, dragging her against his
hard, warm body, caressing her back, sliding his hands down to her bottom. He took her
mouth in another kiss, hot and rich with promise. His tongue no longer caressed. It
demanded, reaching into her, demonstrating his need and his desire.
He whispered to her, voice shaking. “I promise I won’t hurt you. If we can do
nothing else I can love you, show you how beautiful, how desirable you are.”
He led her across the room, his hand linked with hers, but their bodies separate until
they reached the small, uncurtained bed. Watching her, he sat, drawing her to sit beside
him. He curved his arm around her shoulders and drew her down, kicking the coarse
cover out of the way to reveal the crisp, clean linen sheets. He held her and kissed her,
letting her accustom herself to the feel of bodies in contact, skin to skin.
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Perdita had never been closer to anyone else in her life. Before this she had
recklessly offered her virginity but had been made aware of her mistake almost as soon as
she’d made it. This time it felt right. He stroked her, slowly moving his hands over her
body, cherishing and learning. When she touched him, he welcomed it, although she kept
her caresses to his lean back and smooth chest. He felt larger without his clothes,
somehow. Or perhaps she felt smaller. Fichus, hoops, voluminous petticoats all helped to
add bulk to her figure, and her stays reshaped her, pushing her small breasts up to appear
almost generous. She hoped he wasn’t disappointed.
He didn’t seem to be. Perdita felt him take the tip of her nipple between his finger
and thumb and roll it gently, urge it to peak even more than it had already. He pressed
gentle kisses on to her mouth, kisses which gradually deepened, becoming longer, and
more intense, but slowly.
It was as if they had all the time in the world. Time stretched before them in an
infinity of possibilities. He released her breast, flattening his hand to draw his palm down
her body, over the curves of her waist, over her hips and further. When he reached the
junction of her legs he pressed between, and she opened for him.
He leaned up on one elbow when he insinuated his fingers between her legs, working
slowly past the hair that covered her innermost secrets. Perdita closed her eyes
momentarily, and savoured the sensation of careful attention. When she heard his sigh,
she opened her eyes to meet his, softened with desire and need. She smiled. He returned
the smile. “If I do anything you don’t like, you must say so. I depend on your responses,
Peri, to tell me when I’m right.”
“Do what you think is right,” she answered. “If I may do the same.”
“Anything,” he murmured, and bent to take her lips again, his fingers working their
magic between her legs.
Warmth and deep relaxation suffused her, such as she’d never felt before. Never.
Curling into him felt like she was coming home. Safety, care and passion awaited her in
his arms.
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Warmth turned to heat. Perdita tingled when he touched her, spreading quickly up to
her stomach. She stretched, tensing against him, and his arm tightened around her
shoulders, drawing her close. Pressing her lips to his shoulder, which was taut with tense
muscle, Perdita became vaguely aware that his need was as great as hers, but she was too
far gone to do anything except clutch him and lift her head for another kiss.
A devastating kiss. Deep, needy desirous. Melding them together. When she
climaxed she cried out into his mouth, but he didn’t stop, working her so hard the
sensitivity he evoked was almost too much. Almost. He removed his hand to stroke her
from hip to breast, his mouth never leaving hers.
Her arms around him, Perdita pulled him to lie on top of her, his member hard
between her legs. His movement was instinctive, sliding into the moisture he’d created,
gliding ever closer.
She felt him tense and draw back. Bewildered at his withdrawal she opened her eyes,
and saw apprehension. “I’m not sure we should do this. Are you certain?”
“Yes.” He was reminding her that virgin or no, she could still get pregnant if they
made love. She smiled her reassurance. This time she was older and more independent.
She would cope, if she had to. She wanted this too much to draw back now.
Relief and joy combined in his beautiful smile. “Tell me if I hurt you. I don’t want to
do that.”
His anxiety didn’t prevent him pressing forward. She arched up to receive him, her
bottom tensing against the sheets.
He entered her slowly, so slowly she felt every ridge, her shape moulding to take
him, soften around his body. “Dear Lord,” he whispered. “This is perfect.”
It was. Perdita reached up to hold his shoulders, the hard curves smooth against her
hands, sliding her palms over his back, enjoying every curve, every ridge of bone,
shaping the strong shoulder blades as he pushed into her. His sweat formed in beads
under her hands.
Perdita knew what to do, although not from her previous experience. From instinct.
She pushed her pelvis to meet his thrusts, her shoulders deep into the mattress and found
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his responses meeting hers. He still gazed at her, but the look of anxiety had gone, to be
replaced by pure desire, and something deeper she didn’t recognise.
He pushed himself up on his arms, reaching deeply into her. Perdita let her arms slip
down to his waist, gliding over his backside, curving and pulling him when he thrust.
The tingle began again, but this time inside her. He must have seen the change
reflected in her eyes, for he grinned, and gasped, “Yes, yes, love, feel it, let it go, let it
flow through you.”
She surrendered, closing her eyes to feel the sensations rolling through her body, the
joy he brought to her. Arching her back she cried out, and this time he didn’t try to muffle
her voice, but called out to her in return, his voice harsh with passion. “Oh, you feel so
good, my love, my sweet!”
“Oh, Charles! Oh, Charles!” If she had been more sentient she might have managed
something a little more intelligent, but her mind, her heart, her whole body was bound up
in the incredible sensations coursing through her.
Then he tensed, his whole body going rigid above her. She reached up to grip his
forearms, and he fell on to her, his elbows shielding her from his full weight. His body
convulsed uncontrollably, and it was his turn to cry out. Warmth flooded her, and it was
over.
The room fell quiet except for the occasional pop from the coals on the fire, and their
laboured breathing. Charles pushed himself up and away, but stayed inside her, rolling
them both to one side. Perdita curled up to him, one leg over his, her arm around his
waist.
He needed time. Time to assimilate what had just happened. He’d had lovers before,
but never like this. Never had what should have been ordinary, friendly sexual congress
been more devastating, more thoroughly engrossing.
He wondered how she felt, but was too content to change anything. Her breathing
told him she was slipping into sleep, and he reached down and pulled the light sheet over
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them both. It was all they needed. He was glad the screen shielded them from the heat of
the fire, leading the heat to the open window in the far corner of the room.
He’d never indulged in such vigorous activity here before, never felt the muggy heat
so much. After a week, this room was more home to him than his Paris hotel, or his
houses in Tuscany and London. Only his ancestral home had ever truly been a home to
him, and he’d left that long ago. He wanted to return there, but not alone. He wanted to
take Perdita with him.
Drowsy, but not sleepy, Charles cuddled Perdita close, for once at peace with
himself and the world. Her response was a delight, her body a joy he’d never hoped to
find. She was delicate, exquisitely formed, but responded to him with all the strength of
her nature, whole-heartedly and fully. She’d held nothing back, so he’d given her all he
could, all he was capable of giving.
He wanted to give her more. She was his. But before they resolved that, they would
have to resolve other matters.
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Chapter Thirteen
He roused her before dawn with a gentle kiss. When she opened her eyes, she smiled
at him. He saw no regrets, no shame in her eyes and that in itself made him feel ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“What for?” She reached for him, as if she found it natural. He went, as if it was.
“Making love to you. I should have had more control, but I couldn’t stop.”
“Do you know how flattering that is?” She blushed a delicate shade of pink and
averted her gaze, glancing aside to the dim, shadowy attic room. “After seeing my—
legs.”
She whispered the last word, so even in this relative quiet he had to strain to hear her.
He put his hand on her chin and gently turned her back, so she had to look at him.
“You’re lovely, Peri. The accident was just that, an accident. Not your fault, so why
should you feel shame?”
She swallowed. “It was my fault.”
“No.” He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away once more and his kiss fell
on her cheek. His lips next to her ear, he murmured, “Tell me. I promise I won’t turn
away, I won’t condemn you. How can I, when I’ve made so many mistakes in my life?”
“Well it was my fault.” He let her take a minute to compose herself, and waited
patiently for her next words. “Charles, I killed that horse and nearly killed myself because
I didn’t care if I lived or died. I was young and foolish and I thought I’d just ruined my
life.”
When she looked at him again, he saw guilt etched large, guilt he wanted to kiss
away. But she pressed her palms to his chest and held him off, such an expression of pain
on her face he stopped to listen to her.
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“When I first arrived in London as a newly wealthy debutante, it all went to my
head. Understand how confident, brash and downright stupid I was seven years ago. I
thought nothing could touch me. Until Conrad Berrington arrived on the scene.”
He went still, the chill of the morning seeping through his skin. “Berrington?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry. I tried to tell you all this before, but I-I couldn’t. I was too
ashamed.”
Fear gripped him and he had to force himself not to drag her close, hold her tight. He
kept his embrace gentle and he felt her tremble. “Tell me.”
“I was always a good horsewoman and to see me, so small, mounted on a large beast
set me apart, made me look good. So I became known as a fearless horsewoman. People
became used to me taking the lead in the hunt, going for solitary rides when I should not.
So it was easy for me to meet C-Conrad when he approached me and asked to meet me in
secret.” A tear trickled down her face, from the corner of her eye towards her ear and he
watched, fascinated as it coursed around the whorls he still longed to kiss. But he had to
listen. “It happened on the third time I rode out to meet him alone. We were at
Taversall’s country house, so I knew the terrain well. He-we-he—” She stopped, and the
single tear became a flood.
Charles held her close, hearing the rest of her story as she sobbed it in broken
phrases, her breath hot on his ear, her tears soaking his chest. He worked hard to keep his
caresses gentle, when the memory of Berrington’s seduction and humiliation of her
threatened to turn him into a watering-pot, too.
“H-he seduced me. I knew he would, and fool that I am, I was flattered, thought that
was bound to convince my family that we should marry. Then he did—other things.” She
looked up at him, and he hated the look of fear in her eyes. “He likes hurting women.
You know?”
He knew. For a few heartbeats he was still, assimilating what she was saying. And
this bastard had his sister, and God help him, his daughter?
“He said I was a plaything and said he never intended to marry me. Orlando had
caused him to be told that we were still struggling, still poor and told him if he married
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me, there would be no rich dowry. So he took me and he hurt me. And he enjoyed doing
it.”
The bastard seduced her then told her she was a plaything, that he’d never intended
to marry her. He was seeking richer prey. So she leaped on her horse and headed for the
house, intent on getting away from him and telling her brothers what she’d done.
Berrington was sure she’d want to hide her shame, not reveal it, but he didn’t realise
how close the family was. Underestimation of the love between siblings only related by
one parent, but siblings who already cared enough for each other to create a powerful
family network.
He mounted his own animal and pursued her when she called her threat back to him.
“I-I’m not quite sure how it happened, but I took a fall. A bad one. I could never
remember the accident itself, and my doctor said it often happened that way.” Her tears
overflowed, and Charles guessed she’d held it all in, coped with it the way she coped
with everything else in her life, but it was time, more than time she told somebody the
whole truth.
Charles gritted his teeth when she sobbed her agony on his shoulder but then found
enough self-control to speak. “The way I see it, sweetheart, the accident was his fault. All
of it. For seducing you, treating you so cruelly afterwards and pursuing you when you
rode away, obviously too upset to ride at speed.”
She still sobbed. “I should have told you what he did, then you would never have
allowed Millicent to even see him!”
That shocked him. Had she been carrying the guilt around with her, thinking her
confession would free his sister from blame?
No, he couldn’t let her believe that. Although she clung to him with the desperation
of a drowning woman, he disengaged, managing not to hurt her as he loosened her hold
around his neck and laid her back on the bed. “I might not have believed you,” he said
gently.
Shocked, all cried out, her face still blotchy from weeping she stared up at him. The
light was stronger now, and he could see her clearly in the soft dawn light. “I didn’t
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believe you when you tried to warn me, and at the time I thought the match unwise, but
he covered himself well. Berrington has never been called a fortune-hunter, though some
might have whispered it behind their fans. He kept what money he has circulating,
making it appear more, always paid his gambling debts, but kept tradesmen waiting
forever. And I never heard of his unpleasant propensities before. He’s kept that well
hidden. What could I have done? Millicent has always been too headstrong, and I was out
of her life for so long my influence with her is marginal. She would have run off with
him anyway, whatever we told her.”
Perdita blinked, and as he watched, she calmed. Her breasts rose and fell with her
even, deep breaths.
“Is that why you decided to come here on your own?” She nodded. “What could you
have done? For that matter, what could I have done? Liverpool is a wild place, still, on
the frontier of civilisation in many ways. New, raw, nearly lawless. So I decided the only
way to be sure of getting Aimée back was to do this, and if Millicent changed her mind, I
could probably cover up her indiscretion if no one else knew. And in doing so, I
imperilled you. I will make it up to you, Peri. I swear it.”
He kissed her, and what he meant as a gentle kiss to seal his promise turned more
passionate when she clung to him, held him as if he were her only hope of salvation. He
drew away once, held her forcibly down as he stared into her eyes. “Is this because you
think you owe me something? Is this want, or guilt, Peri?”
“Want.”
That one word did more to enflame him than all the practiced words of the
fashionable sluts he’d consorted with in the last few years. He kissed her tear-stained
face, wanting desperately to ease her pain, give her pleasure, and his kisses progressed to
her throat. Her sighs only encouraged him to do more, to kiss further down, to take one of
her pretty nipples into his mouth, caress it until it hardened into a little nub and then pass
on to the other.
By this time she twisted under him, pushing her body to his, and although this had
happened many times in his adult life, never had he felt such piercing sweetness. Peri
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didn’t hide her need for him. The least he could do was satisfy it and love her as she
deserved.
He lingered at her navel, and brought his hand up her thigh to toy with the dampness
between her legs. The heady scent made him want to taste, but he felt her hands go under
his arms, urging him back up to her. With one last kiss on her tender stomach, he slid
back up the bed and took her mouth, letting his swollen erection find its own way home.
He slid inside her as if he belonged there, which was the truth. But he would try to
withdraw this time. She deserved a choice, if he could give it to her. If not, he’d be there
for her.
Immediately, she arched up to him, pressing her sweet mound against him, driving
him to push mindlessly inside her body, seeking the exact place that would bring her the
most pleasure.
It was his turn to gasp when she lifted her head to open her mouth over his throat, at
the base of his neck, licking and sucking voraciously. It was more arousing because he
knew she hadn’t learned that from any other lover, since the only one before him had
been a brute. That she enjoyed his loving, exhausted last night, desperate this morning,
told him of her lack of experience as much as an intact hymen would have done.
But in her innocence, she’d found one of his most sensitive spots, one that drove him
wild, and he could no longer prevent the heavy thrusts, seeking her centre, driving
himself up towards completion, praying he was taking her with him.
When she went suddenly still under him, then let out a wild cry of joy, he knew he’d
done it, reached her and given her the joy she deserved. Her release triggered his, and he
felt the pulses as he gave her everything he had, delight and guilt flooding him as he
realised he hadn’t withdrawn from her body. Again.
But this was no time to repine on his mistakes and God knew he’d made a lifetime’s
worth of those in the past month or two. This was just another one, but at least this one
was well within his powers to make right.
He’d ask her to marry him once he had her safe and out of this mess. And he could
give her a choice, free and clear. When he could assure her he meant it, that he wanted
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her. For while he was still unsure if he loved her, or even what love meant, Peri meant
much more to him than a passing fancy, or even a dear friend. He wanted to keep her.
He let himself rest on her sweet little body for only a few moments, before he lifted
off her and swung up to sit on the side of the bed. He allowed himself one caress of her
lovely breasts before he stood up and crossed the room to find a shirt to put on.
“Sweetheart, we have to make haste.” The sun was coming up fast now, the room filled
with early morning light. “We have a ship to catch.”
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Chapter Fourteen
The dock was a hive of activity, people swarming towards the ship, sails furled but
ready, the crew distinctive as the only people unencumbered by luggage or small
children. The early morning light was clear and crisp, the water reflecting the light to a
wavering mirage on the hull of the vessel. While the ship was one of the largest moored
in the dock, Perdita still wondered how such a fragile looking vessel would cross the
Atlantic and reach the other side safely.
But they wouldn’t be on it. They’d have to move fast to collect Aimée and
disembark before the ship sailed. Their luggage was for show—only a few garments
inside the bags they carried, and they’d drop them without hesitation.
The passengers embarked via a long gangplank set between the deck and the dock.
Perdita eyed it doubtfully, disliking how it bowed under the weight of the passengers and
the luggage. But she said nothing, only moved a little closer to Charles when someone
pushed past, heading for the ship with none of the hesitation she felt.
Charles smiled at someone behind her and wondering who he could have seen, she
turned to see the man from the bank, Mr. Ireland. He looked out of place here on the
dock, with his good clothes and neatly tied-back wig, against the shabbily dressed people
about to embark on the adventure of a lifetime.
“Peri, Mr. Ireland has come here for you. He’ll take you to his house in the city, and
his wife will receive you. You can bathe, change and wait for us.”
She rounded on him in indignation. “How can you even think I would leave you
now? You had no right to do this, Charles, no right at all!”
He smiled gently. “I know, but I hoped you’d take this opportunity. You’ve had a
difficult time. I’ve known Ireland for years, and a steadier and more discreet man you
couldn’t hope to find.”
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“No.” She clutched his arm and moved closer, aware her defiance was beginning to
attract intention. She didn’t care.
“You can say your carriage broke, your servants abandoned you and Ireland took
you in. He can ensure you travel on to your aunt’s.”
“You don’t want me? Is that it?” It was happening again, albeit in a subtler way.
Charles was casting her off, getting rid of her. He’d been far kinder than Berrington, but
yet again, she was a nuisance, superfluous, surplus to requirements.
To do him justice, at least Charles looked shocked, his mouth falling open before he
gained control over his reactions. “No, that’s not it at all. I don’t want you to dive straight
back into scandal. If you associate with me, that is bound to happen. I wanted you to have
the choice, that’s all.”
She frowned. Could she trust him, or was this yet another time she’d acted without
thinking, behaved so stupidly? She couldn’t face Orlando with this. If she’d done it again,
she’d disappear this time, before society labelled her an unreformed slut. Perhaps she
was. Maybe it would be better to slink up to Cumbria and just stay there, an eccentric
aunt and her niece, tucked out of the way so they weren’t an encumbrance on their
families.
Her hand tightened on Charles’s arm but she forced herself to release it.
“Ma’am?” Mr. Ireland smiled and indicated the carriage waiting at the end of the
dock. A respectable, discreet carriage. Climb into it, and she’d find herself whisked away,
all her decisions made for her, just as if she hadn’t strived with Orlando, schemed with
him to make their properties work for them, or taken matters into her own hands and
travelled to Liverpool on her own. Another society miss, her future arranged for her,
nothing to do but look pretty and smile at the gentlemen.
She couldn’t bear it. Docility and utter boredom lay that way, she just knew it. Better
to take the adventure lying before her and take her chances. At the very worst, she had
money of her own now, enough to be called “eccentric” instead of “insane”.
“No,” she repeated. “I want to stay here.” Then she realised what that meant for
Charles and she forced a reassuring smile to her trembling lips. “You don’t have to
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worry; I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” Like offer for her. They
couldn’t depend on an experience as out of their ordinary lives as the past few days to be
an indicator of anything, most of all a basis of a successful life together. “I just want to
help you. And have a chance—” She looked back at the carriage, seemingly innocuous,
but a symbol of the empty, dreary life ahead of her.
He glanced at the vehicle too, then stared at her, puzzled. “Peri, I don’t want to force
you to—”
Someone shoved her hard from behind. “Hey, move up, will yer? We need to get on
board!”
She moved forward, and dragged Charles with her, leaving Mr. Ireland behind. “No,
Charles. I appreciate it, but let Mr. Ireland wait for us all. You might need some help.”
He sighed, and laid his hand over hers. “Very well. We’ll be back on dry land soon
enough. And I do appreciate your help, Peri. I just thought that the fewer people who saw
you, the better. No one will recognise me, not looking like this, but you never wore a
great deal of paint, never dressed too high.”
“I’ll take my chances.” She grinned up at him. “In any case, I’m not dreadfully
distinctive, am I? I’ve never been a society beauty.”
“Society is mad.”
She had no time to ask him what he meant, because they’d reached the gangplank.
Charles showed him their ticket, and they set out on the swaying piece of wood
suspended precariously the narrow strip of water between the dock and the ship. Water
slapped against the side of the vessel, delineating the inky lines of darkened timber.
She hastily looked away, up to the deck above them, and forced herself to let go her
death grip on the rope strung as a guide along the side of the gangplank. Knowing
Charles didn’t really want her here, but full of the conviction that she needed to be here,
she stepped up to the deck.
People bustled on the confined space, some of the crew guiding the passengers to
their cabins. Or rather, cabin.
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After descending a set of stairs so steep it threatened to give her vertigo, and along a
narrow passage that wouldn’t have taken a full set of fashionable panniers, they found
themselves in an airless room, packed with humanity, or so it seemed to them. Narrow
bunks edged one side of the room, and luggage was piled along the other side.
People streamed into the room, and she could hardly credit how many bodies this
room was meant to accommodate. For the next six weeks, if they stayed on board, they’d
have to live cheek by jowl with total strangers, try to keep clean and free of vermin, be
civil to people they might well detest. For the first time Perdita appreciated the privileges
wealth brought her—privacy, space to breathe and quiet. This place already reverberated
with the sound of many conversations taking place all at once. If it were like this day and
night without cease, she’d go completely mad.
Charles tugged her out of the main stream of humanity to where bundles and trunks
were stacked in a corner of the room, ready for the crew to stow below with the rest of
the emigrants’ belongings. “Where did all these people come from?” she gasped. “There
weren’t that many waiting on the dockside.”
“Most came aboard yesterday or overnight,” he murmured. “We would have done so,
except—”
“Are you blushing?”
He pressed a quick kiss to her hand. “No. Just remembering.”
Keeping hold of her hand, he drew her out of the room. Most people were now in
place, so the press of humanity was less severe. They could get through the narrow
hallway. Back up the stairs, easier to get up than down, she breathed in the fresher air.
The atmosphere downstairs—below decks—was already redolent of humanity. After a
few weeks, it must become unbearable.
But she wouldn’t be here for that. The thought gave her the push she needed,
inaction turning to a fierce desire to be done and out of this place.
Charles seemed taken by the same need, and almost dragged her along in his haste to
be away. “I know how these ships are laid out,” he said. “Just come with me. If we move
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fast there should be too much going on for them to worry about two extra people
wandering around.”
She hoped so. At the end of the deck, he took her down another stair, going ahead of
her and lifting her to the floor once he was down. His hands lingered for a fraction longer
than was necessary, then he was all business again, leading her towards the better
fragranced part of the ship.
He walked boldly past other crew members, letting them assume they were part of
the crew, or a servant to one of the privileged passengers on the ship. And they got away
with it. No one questioned them.
He knocked on all the doors, and when he didn’t get a reply, he opened the door
anyway, if it was unlocked. They needed to act swiftly. Waiting until this morning meant
they had little time to find his sister before the ship sailed. A flush of guilt heated
Perdita’s cheeks when she remembered why they were so late. But she couldn’t regret it,
although she would if they didn’t find little Aimée.
Two doors before the end, they heard a child’s cry, quickly choked off. Before
another second passed, Charles had charged into the room. Perdita followed him, closing
the door behind them.
“Charles!” Millicent whirled to face her brother, her skin pale and taut with shock.
Berrington stood next to her, his shirtsleeves decorated with spatters of some kind of
food, green and unappetising-looking.
“Papa!” came a shriek from behind them and Charles surged forward, shoving
impatiently past his sister and her swain, revealing his daughter.
Aimée wore a plain country gown, most unlike the frills Perdita had seen her in
before, and her hair was dressed plainly, drawn back from her face into a bun out of
which strands straggled, but the face was the same. Pouting, tears standing out in her
huge blue eyes, she reached for her father and managed to glare at everyone in the room.
Perdita almost felt sorry for the couple standing guilty and shocked, watching
Charles lift his daughter into his arms. She clung to him like a little monkey, her small
hands gripping his forearms. But she didn’t cry. Perdita admired her for that. “I knew
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you’d come, Papa! But why did you leave it so long? I thought you would have to come
to America to find me!”
“No chance of that,” Berrington growled. “We were getting ready to put her off the
ship.” He indicated a small case in the corner.
“Did you have someone to take her?”
Millicent stared at Perdita as if she had no right to be there. Which, in a way, she
hadn’t, but she rather thought she’d earned the right. “What business is it of yours?”
Charles was engrossed in a careful examination of his daughter, checking her limbs
and body for signs of abuse. There would be no help for Perdita there. “It’s my business
because everyone should try to care for frightened children.”
Millicent snorted. “This one wouldn’t know frightened if it hit her. We’ve had
nothing but complaints and fights since we took her.”
“It’s also my business because Berrington once treated me as he treated you.” She
put her chin up, aware of the still silence in the room. “He hurt me so badly when I
mounted my horse to get away from him, I fell and broke both my legs.”
“Brava!” Charles wasn’t as engrossed in Aimée as she’d thought. He watched her
with approval in his dark eyes.
Millicent wasn’t impressed. “He told me about that. Said the accident was all your
fault, and he never meant you any harm. They wouldn’t let him in to see you.”
“He never tried.” Much later, Orlando had told Perdita that and she trusted her
brother to tell her the truth. He hadn’t bothered to call, or been too afraid to, just in case
she’d told Orlando the truth. She never had. Her recovery seemed more important, and
then it didn’t seem as important any more.
“They never told you.” Millicent’s mouth lifted in a sneer. “And you didn’t trust him
enough to try to find him.”
She’d been fighting for her life against infection, then fighting to walk again. And it
was up to her to reach out to him? She didn’t think so. But arguing would only weaken
her case. And they needed to get out of here.
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Charles must have been thinking the same way. He strode to the door, barking,
“Come, Millicent!”
“No.”
Her flat refusal made him swing around to regard his sister with a cool stare. “Your
choice, Millicent. I have no time to argue. But this is the last time I will offer this to you.
You go with Berrington, you are on your own. You will have nothing except the portion
our mother left you. Not the dowry I settled on you to supplement our mother’s small
endowment, not the jewellery or valuable possessions you have. You understand?”
Millicent went even whiter and her fists clenched in the folds of her gown. “I
understand. You can’t coerce me with mere money. Besides, I have given myself to
Conrad, and we are a couple!”
“You idiot.” Perdita hadn’t meant her comment to come out quite so loud, but it fell
into the sudden silence like a stone in a pond.
Berrington opened his mouth, but Millicent beat him to it. Her invective only made
Perdita feel sorrier for her. “Jealous! You’re jealous, because you couldn’t keep him and I
could!”
At the same time, Berrington spoke, his voice cutting through his companion’s. “You
would abandon your sister? Just think what society will say when they hear! You won’t
remain society’s darling for long after that!”
Charles fixed him with a heavy-lidded, aristocratic stare. For all his shabby clothes
and unfashionably tanned skin, he appeared every inch the powerful aristocrat, projecting
his presence better than any actor Perdita had ever seen. “You forget who I am. Sir, I am
society.”
“But you will lose face when the story gets out.”
“No.”
“Oh yes you will.” Berrington cast her an evil glance and she suddenly knew what he
was about to say. “You’ll lose some face. I’ll make sure of it. But how will society take
the news that Lady Perdita Garland spent time alone with you, unchaperoned, and this
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isn’t the first time it happened? That Lady Perdita makes a habit of spending time with
men?”
Charles’s eyes narrowed with sudden rage. “You won’t do that.”
“Yes I will, if you make me. Unless you give Millicent what is due to her, and a little
bit extra.”
“No.” Charles turned to Perdita and numbly, she took a suddenly silent Aimée into
her arms. “You will answer that another way, Berrington. My sister is a fool, but she
doesn’t deserve to spend the rest of her life with a cheat and a liar.”
Berrington flinched as if Charles had struck him, but said nothing.
“You want me to tell society that is what you are?” Charles taunted. “If you do not
answer me, I have no choice.”
“No, you bastard,” Berrington growled. “I’ll fight you if you agree to give Millicent
a decent amount when I win. And I will win.”
How could he think he’d win? Couldn’t he see the powerful man standing before
him?
Suddenly Perdita realised the truth. Conrad Berrington could only see the man in the
maquillage, dressed in satins and velvets. He couldn’t see the man under the disguise and
still believed it to be the truth—that Charles was society’s darling, a man who wouldn’t
know hard work if he were forced to it.
Relief warred with niggling annoyance, and it was a minute before she recognised
why. Charles challenged Berrington on behalf of his sister. Not once did he mention her.
It was his right, she supposed, but depression sank around her in a dark cloud of
misery. Charles had been right. She was a nuisance, always in the way. He didn’t need
her here, probably didn’t want her.
Oh no, I’m not going there again. She’d spent a year in that kind of hell, convincing
herself she wasn’t worth anything, that she was a waste, her mood aided and abetted by
two people who were now out of her life. As was that particularly destructive emotion.
She was here for Charles, to help him regain his child, and if possible, his sister.
Then she’d see what she had left of her life and cope with it. She would not allow him to
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propose to her because of their adventure together, though if their intimacy had a result,
she’d marry him for the sake of their unborn child.
And because she wanted him. His tender, passionate lovemaking shook her to the
core. But if he didn’t want her—baby permitting—she’d walk away. Whatever it cost her.
That should shake her mood of apathetic gloom.
Berrington was tearing off his coat, and Charles coolly slipped out of his. She took
Charles’s coat. Millicent didn’t take Berrington’s, but took a step back.
“We’ll do this on deck,” Charles said, turning to lead the way.
“Like hell we will. We’ll do it here.”
Charles glanced at her, the first time he’d looked at her since they entered the room,
his eyes cool and dispassionate. “Can you take Aimée out of here?”
She began to protest, wanting to be here for him, but then realised that the best
service she could do for him was to take Aimée away from the unedifying spectacle of
two men fighting, maybe to the death.
As she stepped around him, Millicent grabbed Aimée and stepped out of reach. “She
doesn’t know you.”
Perdita raised a brow. “She doesn’t like you.” As soon as Millicent lifted Aimée, the
child’s bellows began anew. It would probably be a worse punishment to make them take
Aimée with them. Half way across the Atlantic, they’d probably go completely insane.
Ignoring Aimée’s cries, Millicent left the room, not forgetting to glare at Perdita on
her way past. Now there was no reason for her to leave. She backed up, so she stood next
to the door, not about to allow Berrington to prevent their exit.
Berrington swung the first punch, and any hope she had that he’d be an unskilful
fighter were dashed. Low and accurate, heading for Charles’s lower stomach.
So it was just as well he wasn’t there to receive it. He stepped aside and countered
with a swift uppercut to the jaw.
Perdita never thought she’d be thankful to brothers who made her referee their
impromptu and sometimes wild boxing matches, but at least it meant she could follow the
fight, and had some idea of the skill involved.
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Which was considerable. Charles took a few blows to his body, but it didn’t stop him
delivering a few of his own. Berrington was after pounding him into a pulp, pure and
simple but it wasn’t long before Perdita realised Charles was going for the quick kill, the
places that would render his opponent unconscious quickly and with the least fuss.
But maybe he hadn’t reckoned on such a skilful opponent. He blocked and punched,
took blows and swung. A particularly wild lurch of the ship sent Berrington swaying, and
this was Charles’s chance. One swift uppercut and Berrington’s head snapped back. He
fell to the floor with a heavy thud that shook the planks under their feet. Charles glanced
around. “We need to get out of here. Come on.”
With one look back at the man who had haunted her adult life for so long, she
refrained from spitting on him, and turned to Charles. He’d seen the telltale purse of her
lips. “Go on,” he suggested. “I won’t tell.”
It was childish, it was pointless, but she felt so much better when she’d done it.
Charles caught her close for a quick kiss. “Stylish,” he murmured, stroking down her
cheek.
“He didn’t mark your face.”
Charles grinned. “Second nature to protect it.” He took her hand. “Come on, let’s get
off this thing.”
Millicent hadn’t gone far, standing white-faced outside the room. Perdita knew,
because she’d heard Aimée’s steady bawling throughout and she doubted even Millicent
would leave the child on her own. Charles would kill her for that.
She took a step back when she saw who came out of the room. “H-have you k-killed
him?” Her white face almost gleamed in the dim hallway light.
“No.” Charles snapped the word. “He’ll recover. Not as pretty as he was, but he’s
alive.” He beckoned to her and she took one reluctant step towards him, then another.
“Choose, Millicent. Now.” He took Aimée from her and the child sniffed and whimpered,
her cries gradually ceasing. “You want to come with me, or stay with Berrington?”
“You’ll let me stay?”
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“I’ve done my best, Millicent, but I’ve had enough. When you took Aimée, you took
any respect or consideration I might have for you. But you are still my sister, and I will
fulfil my duty to you. On the other hand, if you decide to stay with Berrington, I’ll
consider you married to him and my duty is over.” He paused. “Choose.”
“B-b—” Before she could say the word another lurch sent Charles against Perdita,
crushing them both against the planked hallway.
“What the devil…?” Charles exclaimed, but quickly added, “Oh my God, no!” and
he thrust Aimée into her arms. “Wait here.”
Like hell she’d wait here. Aimée, who had begun to sniffle again, was surprised out
of her preparations when Perdita dumped her on the floor and snapped “Look after her,”
to Millicent. Her wails followed Perdita out of the stairwell as she scrambled after
Charles.
The fresh breeze hit her full-on when she stepped out on to the deck. She grabbed at
the item nearest to her, which turned out to be a piece of rigging and hardly helped at all,
but just enough to let her get her feet. Now she realised the gentle swaying of the ship
had increased, and the land was a lot further off than before.
They were at sea. While they could still see land, they were definitely not close
enough to disembark any more. They had land either side of them, but it looked a long
way away, and getting further all the time. Soon they’d be on the open sea.
Charles stood at the top of the stairs, hands on hips. When he realised she stood next
to him, he curved his arm around her waist and drew her to his side. “My God,” he
breathed. “I’m sorry, Perdita.”
“Not your fault,” she managed.
“What you doing on board?” someone to their left demanded. Charles turned his
head to regard the crew member and Perdita didn’t have to see his face to know he’d
donned the hauteur of the aristocrat.
“Looking for the captain. Can you take me to him?”
“Don’t think ’e’ll be wantin’ to be bothered by the likes of you.”
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“I’ll make it worth his while. And yours.” Charles slipped his hand in his pocket and
came out with something that glinted gold in the morning light. A half sovereign.
It disappeared as fast as he’d produced it. “Come along a’ me, then,” the man said,
his tone far more respectful than it had been a moment ago. Wonderful how eloquent
money was.
The captain stood on the bridge, roaring instructions to the crew and for the first time
Perdita realised that a good crew acted as one, as parts of a well-oiled engine. Everyone
knew what they were doing, and the captain supervised it all. She might have a long time
to observe them. Six weeks, she recalled the man at the office in Liverpool saying.
How would she contact Orlando? He’d go completely insane if he couldn’t find her.
Could they send some kind of message? She grabbed desperately for an answer. If she
disappeared for months, Orlando and her half-brothers would turn Britain upside down
looking for her.
She followed Charles and his guide across the deck, stepping over huge ropes and
avoiding men who were so intent on their tasks they didn’t even see her. Some did, and
they accompanied her progress with appreciative whistles. How they could, when she
was dressed as plainly and cheaply as this she wasn’t sure, but they seemed to appreciate
the sight of a woman in a shabby blue gown, a plain linen fichu tucked into her bodice
and a worn shawl which might once have been blue but was now a faded gray around her
shoulders. Not much of her figure could be seen, but maybe they just wanted the sight of
anything female.
Or maybe not. Perhaps they’d give Charles the same attention, if he dressed in his
London finery. At least she could still smile.
The bridge was up a short flight of steps, but she was getting accustomed to the steep
stairs customary aboard ship. In a week or two, she’d be scrambling around like a
monkey.
She’d have time to practice.
By the time she reached Charles, he was arguing with the captain. So she added her
mite. It didn’t take much effort to send two big tears rolling down her face.
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Charles had just passed the “I am a marquess” part to the offering of money part.
That was when the captain, a very large man, began to soften.
Charles was nobody’s fool. “So where are you planning to land before you cross the
ocean?” he asked.
The captain chuckled. “Mebbe you should ’ave asked that one at the outset. I’m
makin’ an extra landfall. Usually, we’d stop in Bridgetown then across to America, but
this time I’m collecting an extra party from Bristol. They’re payin’ ’ansome for the
privilege.”
“Who?”
“One o’ yourn. Earl of Prestwick is goin’ across the ocean and he doesn’t want to
come up to Liverpool first.”
“Why isn’t he taking ship in Liverpool?”
The captain laughed again. “Taken a fancy to me, ’e ’as. Says only I can take ’im.”
“He must be insane,” Perdita commented.
“Insanely rich,” Charles commented wryly. “I met him last year. He doesn’t move in
society but he lives in the West Country, so I met him at a house party. Rich enough to
hire his own vessel, but he does take fancies to people.”
“An expensive habit,” Perdita said.
Charles smiled at her. “In this case, yes, but it’s our good luck. We can get off this
ship at Bristol.”
“How long?”
“By tomorrow morning we should be back on dry land.”
“Thank God!” She sagged in relief and Charles caught her. He didn’t release her
when she got her balance and senses back, but held her close.
His breath warmed her cheek. “Would it have been so bad?”
She managed a shaky smile. “No, but Orlando—and my family—”
“Yes of course.”
Only now she knew him better did she notice the slight darkness in his eyes, the
doubt that lurked deep down. A few weeks ago, she would have scoffed at the thought,
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but now she knew there was a lot more to the man than aristocratic hauteur and a slightly
odd sense of humour. Deep down, Charles doubted himself and everything he was. She
wished she could reassure him. Now he thought her relief was because she wouldn’t have
to marry him. How wrong he was!
She regained her balance and her internal equilibrium, but she stayed in the shelter of
his arm, because she liked it.
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Chapter Fifteen
Back below decks, pandemonium reigned. This whole deck was to be occupied by
the Earl of Prestwick and his entourage, so a sailor was carefully explaining to them why
they had to move on, Millicent was sobbing loudly and Berrington, now sitting on a chair
holding a bloody cloth to his mouth, still managed to curse up a storm. That, added to
Aimée’s wails, made for the most discordant symphony Perdita had ever heard in her life.
Since Aimée’s distress wasn’t doing anything for Charles’s peace of mind, she went
to the child first. “There, there, my dear. Papa is here and he’s going to take you home.
Sweetheart, don’t cry.”
“Don’t f-feel w-w-well,” was the only warning she got before Aimée sent a stream of
orange coloured vomit down the front of her gown.
Perdita gripped the bedcover under her left hand to stop herself leaping up and
adding to the racket currently echoing around the wooden walls of the suddenly small
cabin. With the reek filling her nostrils she had to fight not to gag and join Aimée in
returning her breakfast. But the girl hadn’t done. With another heave, she added another
offering to the gown, managing to cover some of her own clothes at the same time.
“Jesus!” Charles stared at them from across the room, where he’d been trying to
restore his sister to some semblance of sanity. He shoved Millicent aside and crossed the
room in a couple of strides. “Are you well, minou?” He rounded on the luckless
Berrington. “What did you give her? If you’ve poisoned her you’re a dead man.”
Holding a damp cloth to one side of his face, Berrington nevertheless managed a
sneer. “We kept her in good health. She was supposed to disembark before we left. I had
a man ready to take her to you. With a nurse. Cost me more than I could afford, that did.”
“Only because you knew I’d cross half the world to find you and kill you if you’d
taken her with you.” Charles hardly glanced at the man, but showed him all the contempt
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he was capable of. Which was a lot. Perdita began to wonder how she’d had the nerve to
sleep with a man who seemed so far above them, so aloof.
But when he turned to his daughter, his manner was anything but aloof. “Good God,
who would have thought she had so much in her!” His comment didn’t make Perdita feel
an awful lot better. She sat still, hoping the smell would dissipate, or the stuff would
somehow disappear. Neither happened, but Charles plucked Aimée out of her lap, and
she could at least stand up.
“Give her something to wear,” Charles snapped to Millicent.
“But I hardly have anything…” Her voice faded when Charles turned his head and
stared at her. He glanced at the sailor and jerked his head towards the door. That one
gesture did what Berrington and Millicent had been unable to do. The man nodded and
left.
Silently, she went over to where a trunk rested against the wall and flung the top
open. “Hardly anything” described a trunk so full the lid could hardly close. Perdita
caught sight of a heavily embroidered skirt and wondered where Millicent thought she
could wear a court mantua in America. Was she expecting balls and finery? From what
she’d heard, they were few and far between. The life was lonely and hard, even for the
wealthier emigrants. Millicent grabbed something from the bottom of the trunk and
hauled, creating complete havoc with the contents. She must have packed the trunk
herself, because it was a complete mess, though Perdita knew she couldn’t have done
much better herself.
Aimée was quiet again, in her father’s arms, but her whimpering showed she still
wasn’t well. He took her to the bed behind Perdita and laid her down, smoothing her
clothes tenderly and drawing the sheet over her. “Lie still, baby,” he soothed. “You’ll be
all right now. You’re with Papa.”
“You won’t go away again, Papa?”
A pause. “No, never.”
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He stood up and came around to the front of Perdita. For a fastidious man, he didn’t
pause, but deftly unfastened the bodice for her. Then stopped. “Turn your back,
Berrington.”
Berrington spluttered. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen it before. Not worth turning my
back for.”
Charles’s hands stiffened, and his knuckles, already reddened from the fight,
whitened at the points of tension. “You’ll apologise for that.” His voice remained calm
but no one could have mistaken the warning tone in it.
“Oh, very well. I apologise.”
Millicent’s voice came quietly and sharply. “He turned around.”
Only then did Charles let the gown fall, careful to turn the top over the ruined part,
enclosing the mess within. He inspected her with a cool, critical eye. “The petticoat is
ruined, too. Millicent?”
“Oh, very well.” The sound of more rummaging and then Charles kicked the remains
of the blue gown away and guided her to take a few steps. She couldn’t keep her eyes off
him. His tender expression reflected that of the night before. She had her lover back, if
only for a moment.
“Thank you for looking after her,” he murmured before glancing aside to take the
fresh gown from his sister. This one was a petticoat and short caraco jacket, practical and
much prettier than the one she’d just discarded. But she’d miss it, her last reminder of
that hot little room under the eaves where she’d found her own personal heaven.
All she had now were the hairpins. Her underwear was her own, brought with her
into the room and worn out.
The clothes she had now were more like she was used to, a cream background
decorated with brightly coloured printed flowers, and the jacket was a dark red, edged
with the cream of the petticoat. Charles smiled at her when he’d helped her into it,
including hitching the skirt up a few inches at the waist and securing it with the
drawstring tie. Millicent was taller than Perdita. Most people were. “Very pretty,” he
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commented, moving away. She saw his eyes grow cold when his attention went to his
sister.
“Make your mind up. I won’t ask you again.”
Millicent swallowed. “I want to go home.”
Berrington groaned. “Think, Millie.”
Charles bared his teeth in a feral grin. “If you called her Millie, you’ve probably
been on her hate list since you did it. You’ve lost, Berrington. And you are staying on this
ship, if I have to pay your passage. Is there a plantation waiting for you?”
Berrington nodded. “It’s the only thing I have left.” He winced and re-applied his
cloth to a deep cut on his upper lip.
“Then I wish you luck with it. Don’t come back.”
His opponent shrugged. “Nothing to come back for.” He glanced at Millicent.
“Sorry.”
Perdita supposed she should feel sorry for him, to see the handsome rake brought so
low. But sympathy had left her a long time ago. At her worst times, she’d daydreamed
about bringing him down, but now, faced with the man who’d caused her crippling
injuries, she could do nothing but pity him and see him for the worthless piece of
humanity he was. He wasn’t worth hating.
“Get out now, Berrington. If Prestwick will allow it, he may find a place for you in
his apartments, but if he chooses not to, you may take our berths in the general cabin.”
Perdita shuddered. Spending six weeks or more in that fetid atmosphere wasn’t
something she’d wish on anyone. Or perhaps one person, and she was looking at him
now.
Berrington glared at him. “I booked this cabin.”
“It appears that the captain was too greedy, or the booking officer was, and this
whole floor is bespoken by Lord Prestwick. You can try to assert your claim, but your
best chance is to appeal to his better nature.”
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Charles moved towards Berrington, who inched his chair back a little. “Out. I don’t
care what happens after we reach Bristol, but until then I don’t want to see your face
again.”
“I’ll need money.”
Perdita caught her breath at Berrington’s barefaced impudence. Charles’s mouth
flattened before he dragged his shirt out of his breeches to get at the money belt
concealed under his clothes. Millicent giggled nervously at the sight of her brother’s bare
skin, but Perdita had to fight to prevent the glimpse of his bare skin taking her right back
to the memories of the night before.
It failed. Her body heated and warmed. She could feel herself readying for him, her
cleft dampening, her nipples peaking. All because of the sight of his skin.
Charles handed over some banknotes and a few gold coins. Berrington shoved them
in his coat pocket so fast she didn’t have time to assess how much Charles had handed
over. Not that she cared a great deal.
What she would do about it was beyond her comprehension at the moment. Perhaps
the feeling would weaken in time. Perhaps she should try not to see him anymore,
especially with his shirt off.
After Millicent recalled the sailor, he helped Berrington leave the cabin. At Charles’s
snapped instructions, Perdita realised he was going down below. Charles turned to them.
“I could bespeak a cabin for him, but I’ll leave the decision up to you ladies. There are
more cabins on other decks. But it won’t do him any harm to suffer for a day or so before
we give him his reprieve. Well, what is it to be?”
Millicent gave a petulant shrug and turned away. “I don’t care. Why did you have to
spoil everything, Charles?”
Charles regarded her gravely. “I can only hope you learn from this experience,
Millicent.” He glanced at Aimée, now asleep, looking far too vulnerable between the
pristine white sheets. His glance lengthened to a gaze. “I came close to casting you off for
what you did to Aimée. But I have her safe now, and you should take great care with her,
for your future is bound up with hers. She suffers, you suffer.” He lifted his gaze and his
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expression turned cold when he looked at his sister. “I will do my best to find a good
match for you in the next year. It’s more than you deserve, but it’s the best way to get
you off my hands.” His chilling tones filled Perdita with fear, so the rabbit-transfixed-by-
a-snake expression on Millicent’s face was entirely understandable. “In private, I would
prefer a more distant connection with you, at least for the near future. You have come
close to total ruin. You should thank God you didn’t come any closer.”
Millicent gave a strangled sob and fled, slamming the cabin door behind her. Perdita
sprang from her chair and made to go after her, but Charles hooked his arm around her
waist as she tried to pass him and hauled her close. “Let her go. She can’t come to much
harm, unless she throws herself overboard and she could use a period of reflection.” He
grimaced. “Not that it’s done her much good so far. I’ll have to find a duenna for her. I
almost wish she’d chosen to accompany Berrington.”
“How can you be so hard on your own sister?”
He placed his hands on her waist and looked down at her, his mouth and eyes slowly
relaxing into the Charles she’d known in the past few days. This Charles she knew, this
one was the one she wanted, thought she’d come close to knowing. “I think she needs it.
Our mother indulged her far too much, and this is the result. If she is to live in our
society, and not the one on the other side of the Atlantic, she has to learn its rules, and
how to keep within them. If I find her a husband, she’ll be his concern, not mine, and it
shouldn’t be difficult.”
“Even when her escapade becomes known?”
He drew her close and rested his cheek on her hair. “It won’t be. I can come up with
something. And since she’s staying with me, she can be your companion, too.”
“So how do you explain this trip?”
He chuckled. “I can be very inventive, when I choose to be.” He paused and she felt
a touch on her hair which she recognised as a kiss. “Peri, I have a lot to thank you for and
a lot to make up to you. I mean to do it, too. Will you marry me?”
Her breath caught in her throat. It was what she wanted more than anything else. But
she couldn’t do it like this. She wanted more. She wanted it all.
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She drew back so she could look up into his dear face. They would have a good
marriage, she knew that. Charles would be kind, indulgent even, and she already knew
how skilled he was at lovemaking. He was rich, could give her anything she wanted and
more. But she wanted more than that, too. She knew what it was to be poor, and she
wasn’t afraid of it as other people were.
“Thank you for asking me, Charles. But I really don’t want to, under these
circumstances.”
His grip tightened on her waist and she gloried in this small gesture of
possessiveness. “What do you mean?”
“I came after Millicent for my own reasons. So I could live with what I’d done, not
telling you about Conrad, so you would be on your guard, and trying to put right the
things that you needed so much. And I had the opportunity to do it, too. I never meant to
compromise you. I know the London belles all tried to, in their various ways and I know
you don’t want that. If we marry under these circumstances I’ll always feel I trapped you,
that you felt obliged to marry me.”
“Peri, when I made love to you last night, it was with the full understanding that
we’d marry.”
She forced herself not to look away. “That was before you knew I wasn’t a virgin.
Since you didn’t take my virginity, it’s hardly fair to make you pay for it.”
“Virgin or no, you might be pregnant.” His face was as still as if he wore full
maquillage, and just as lacking in eloquence. She couldn’t tell how he felt about her
answer; she could see neither relief nor regret there.
“I might. And if I am, I’ll come to you, and accept whatever you wish to offer me.
There is no reason any child of mine should suffer for its mother’s stupidity.”
“Is that what you think it was? Stupidity?”
“Don’t you?”
He released her then and took a few restless strides around the room, ending at the
door. “Maybe. My offer stands, Perdita. Think about it. I’ll go and find Millicent and
send someone to clean up that mess.” He indicated the ruined gown and the puddle of
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vomit, now sending up its own message into the atmosphere. “Please make sure Aimée is
all right, and I’ll return in a little while.”
Before she could move, he’d taken the two long strides that brought him to her once
more. Taking her in his arms, he lowered his head and kissed her. Brutal, ravishing and
passionate, his tongue pushed into her mouth, reminding her of the intimacies they’d
shared, and of the possible intimacies to come. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she refused
to let them fall. She savoured the intimate touch of his tongue against hers, and the way
he enclosed her and smoothed his hands over her back, drawing her up to stand on tiptoes
to allow him more access.
Dropping his arms suddenly, he tore his mouth away from hers and went to the door
again. This time he opened it and went out, after a final passing shot. “Don’t forget that,
Perdita, when you think of me.”
More shaken than she cared to admit, even to herself, Perdita stared at the worn oak
door, the peeling paint showing the grain underneath, before turning her attention to
Aimée, now whimpering in her dreams.
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Chapter Sixteen
Perdita discovered that one dockside looked a lot like another. The same cluster of
small, mean houses for the workers, the same imposing warehouses, the same collection
of ships forming a floating town.
Lord Prestwick wasn’t at the quayside, but his household was. “I didn’t know his
lordship was emigrating,” Perdita observed, watching the activity on the dockside.
Trunks, various other items of luggage and what looked very much like the pieces of a
four-poster bed lay trussed up, waiting to be loaded.
“He isn’t. He likes to travel in comfort. He has extensive holdings in America,”
Charles observed laconically. He shifted Aimée in his arms a little, where she lay
slumbering after a long period when she’d cried and vomited by turn. Perdita wore her
second change of clothes, but since Millicent was now accompanying them home, she
hadn’t been as grudging with this change. So Perdita now wore blue again, but a very
different gown to the shabby woollen garment she’d reluctantly left behind. Her
memories were intact, of that strange, out-of-time experience she’d shared with Charles
in Liverpool.
Staring down at the multitude of possessions, Perdita wondered how anyone could be
so foolish as to think they had to take their own furniture on a mere visit. Until she
remembered she’d seriously considered doing the same thing on a previous journey to her
aunt’s in Cumbria. She owed her aunt a visit, as she wouldn’t reach her destination this
time.
Bristol lay at the mouth of the River Avon and, although Liverpool was proving a
doughty rival, still held its position as second only to London. The dockside proved its
success, busy with dockers loading and unloading, efficiently taking as little time as
possible stowing goods aboard before the passengers arrived. It must have cost Lord
Prestwick a fortune to persuade the ship to take a diversion like this. Eccentric didn’t
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begin to explain it, but Perdita felt eternally grateful to him. Although she could never tell
him, as she wasn’t yet Lady Perdita Garland again. That would come later. For now, she
was Lady Millicent’s maid, a role she would continue to hold until they reached
Charles’s home. Then she’d transform into her old self and contact Orlando. They would
get away with this, she felt sure of it now.
What she wasn’t sure about was if she wanted to. Now it seemed she’d return to her
family, as intact as she was before she left, she didn’t know if that was what she wanted.
She couldn’t ask Charles; he was, understandably, too taken up with caring for his sick
daughter. Until he got sick himself and Perdita, with her iron stomach, took over. Now at
least Charles had recovered, and stood shakily waiting to disembark, his daughter asleep
in his arms.
“The beginning of the end.” She hadn’t realised she said it aloud until Charles
answered her.
“Or the beginning of something else.”
“What?”
He glanced at her. “Who knows?”
Then she knew he meant to wait until they discovered if she was pregnant or not
before he revealed how he really thought. That meant he didn’t want her.
It shouldn’t hurt so much, but they’d come a long way since their blissful encounter
in Liverpool. Charles was a gentleman; that meant he’d carry out his responsibilities, but
she wanted so much more than that. She’d come this far, reached the venerable age of
twenty seven without engaging herself to any gentleman, so surely it was worth holding
out for more than duty in a husband?
Of course it was. So when Charles turned to her she showed him a smiling, serene
face and allowed him to help her down the gangplank to the waiting hired, but not
expensive, carriage.
By the time they reached Charles’s country house, Easton House, they’d stopped on
the road, hired a more luxurious chaise, and dressed more respectably. Charles had
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appropriated a simple, but better quality, suit of clothes from Berrington, who was now
on his way to the Colonies. He still looked like the Charles of Liverpool, the coat did
nothing to hide the broadness of his shoulders, and he wore his hair natural, no wig as
yet. Perdita still felt comfortable with him, still felt safe.
The hired chaise bowled up the drive, and Perdita watched the house get closer.
Her heart sank. The front was all Palladian elegance, from the graceful sweep of the
double staircase up to the door, to the pilasters carefully separating each window on the
three visible floors. The house was all order, all upper-class superiority, snubbing its
metaphorical nose at the ordinary little carriage now standing before it.
No servants rushed out to greet the occupants. Charles set his jaw as he helped the
womenfolk out and then turned to lift a sleeping Aimée out of the vehicle. “This is not
what I expect of my servants,” he commented, and led them up one side of the staircase,
as the hired help unloaded their meagre luggage.
He had to use the doorknocker. A long pause ensued, while they stood in silence and
Charles’s demeanour grew harder. Eventually, the door slid open to reveal a manservant.
His gaze slid past Charles and Perdita to Millicent and then returned to Charles, who
waited, chin up, staring at the man down his aristocratic nose.
The footman gasped. “My lord!”
“Indeed.” Charles waited until the man remembered his manners and moved aside to
let them in. “May I venture to ask where Rawlings is?”
“Mr. Rawlings went into Bristol, my lord. A shipment of wine is due, and since the
last shipment was inferior he wanted to go and inspect this batch for himself.”
Charles relaxed just a trifle. “Very well. He wasn’t expecting me today, after all.”
“We thought you were settled in Leicestershire, my lord.” The footman swallowed.
“I beg your pardon. I am in charge while Mr. Rawlings is away and I regret I was not on
the ground floor when you knocked.”
“What were you doing?”
“Polishing the silver in the dining room. A maid came to inform me there was
someone at the door.”
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“Hence the delay.” Charles made a shooing gesture. “Very well. I became bored in
Leicestershire and went to collect my sister and her guest. Please ensure there are rooms
made ready for Lady Perdita Garland.”
The man breathed out very slowly, but he closed his eyes in relief just before he
bowed. “Have you any apartments in mind, my lord?”
“The family wing, if you please, near mine and my sister’s. The Chinese room would
serve.”
“I’ll see to it immediately, my lord.”
Charles heaved a heavy sigh. “Our luggage is somewhere behind us on the road, with
the ladies’ maids, but the last we saw of it, it was lying on its side in the road. We came
on ahead. I sent word to Lord Blyth, but the ladies might need a maid tonight.”
So that was the note he sent from the inn they paused at to change carriages. Perdita
hadn’t the slightest idea; she’d assumed he’d sent word here.
Orlando’s house was maybe twenty miles away. If Charles hadn’t been in France, if
she and Orlando hadn’t based their lives in London while Orlando was rebuilding their
fortune, they might have spent more time here. Got to know each other. She might have
got to know this house, got to know Charles. Then there would have been no accident, no
Aimée and no meeting in Liverpool.
No meeting in Liverpool. She would be more tranquil, but without a memory she’d
treasure for the rest of her life.
“Go then. We’ll go to the blue sitting room. Have tea and refreshments served there.”
Charles led the way, upstairs and away from the state rooms, to a comfortable
drawing room, furnished, as its name suggested, in blue. Although this was a smaller
room, meant for family use, the furnishings were still exquisite, everything of the best,
and the paintings on the walls were Canaletto’s and similar views of foreign cities.
Perdita wished she had longer to examine them. She’d always wanted to travel.
Anywhere but here, she was beginning to feel. She looked respectable, but she felt
uncomfortable, out of place. Since she’d spent all her adult life in similar circumstances,
she had no idea why she should feel like this, until she glanced at Charles. Despite his
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relatively plain clothes, he was completely at home, and beginning the transition from
Charles the docker to Lord Petherbridge, untouchable and unreachable.
She wanted the docker back, the tender lover, the man who could make humour out
of any situation. But this man was hard-edged and cold. She didn’t know him.
Charles excused himself to take Aimée to the nursery and see her safely back where
she belonged. Perdita assumed that would be the last she’d see of him that day. He adored
his daughter, had hardly released her since they left the ship and had no time for anyone
but his little girl, who after her fit of projectile vomiting, had fallen into a deep slumber,
roused only to eat and use the necessary. Perdita couldn’t fault his behaviour, but it didn’t
stop her missing the attention Charles gave her when she was his alone. She berated
herself for her selfishness, but it didn’t help; she still missed him.
The door opened to admit a maid carrying a large tea-tray and a footman, the one
who had answered the door. He helped her set up the tea-things, the dainty sandwiches
and the tiny cakes, and then waited to be dismissed.
Millicent stared at her hands, oblivious to the needs of the servant so Perdita had to
take charge. “Thank you, Howard. We’re tired from our journey, so we will probably go
to our rooms after this. I think it would be better if we had dinner served upstairs, we’re
all tired, but you’d better consult with his lordship first.”
“Very well, my lady.” The servants bowed and left the room.
After one glance at Millicent, Perdita poured the tea and took a couple of slices of
bread and butter. She could easily have devoured the whole plateful.
“Millicent, I know this has been a blow for you, but if we’re to succeed, we have to
be careful.”
Millicent lifted her head and stared at Perdita. The icy expression in the gray depths
froze Perdita where she sat. “What do you care? You’ve got what you wanted. Don’t say
you didn’t want Charles, and set out to snare him, because I won’t believe you!”
Perdita shrugged and took more bread and butter.
“Conrad told me about you. You were always jealous of us, because I had what you
couldn’t have. Happy now? You’ve ruined him!”
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She couldn’t let that pass. “He ruined himself, Millicent. He gambled and spent his
fortune away long before he met either of us. When he thought I’d lost my fortune, he
took what he wanted then walked away from me. We only stayed quiet for the sake of my
reputation. I should have said something then, I suppose, but I wasn’t in society—” She
broke off. That wasn’t important. Not now. “Then he tried it with you. You’re rich, richer
than I was, and gullible.” She let the next statement, “more gullible than I was” linger in
the air, unspoken.
“You ruined him.” Millicent stared at her hands, her tea untouched by her side.
Perdita poured herself a fresh cup and took half the little cakes.
“I did no such thing. He ruined himself.”
“I should have stayed with him.”
So that was it. Guilt. “No you shouldn’t, Millicent. And in any case, you made your
decision and you can’t un-make it. You’re here now.” She paused. “Are you pregnant?”
“Are you?” Millicent flashed the answer back so quickly Perdita gasped in shock.
“No.” That wasn’t completely certain but she couldn’t give ground now. “Your
brother and I were looking for Aimée. I was attacked in the street and then he rescued
me. That’s all.”
“Yes, of course,” Millicent sneered. “I saw the way he looked at you. I’d love to
know how you worked that out. You know he’s enormously rich, don’t you? You’ve
done more to trap him than any other woman since he got back to London. That’s why I
stayed. To look after him. You’re not having him, any more than any of the others are.”
Perdita began to get an inkling of Millicent’s motives. Faced with the choice of
relative poverty, she’d chosen the life she knew, a life filled with luxury and indulgence.
Would Perdita have chosen the same?
No. If she’d loved Conrad truly, she could honestly say no. She’d known poverty, or
at least privation, and it wasn’t that bad. She’d never been so hungry she didn’t know
where the next meal was coming from, or dressed in threadbare clothes, except for her
last few weeks. But she had known what it was like to choose between good tea and coals
for the fire. She’d chosen inferior tea and fewer coals. Her experiences had persuaded her
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that there were worse fates than to go without a few luxuries, or to move in the highest
circles of society. Millicent wouldn’t have been completely poverty stricken in America,
Charles would have seen to that, but she wouldn’t be surrounded by luxury and wealth, as
she was here.
Maybe she had seen through Berrington, but Perdita doubted it. Millicent took the
easy way out when it opened up for her—life in the society she knew and trusted. She’d
abandoned her lover without a backwards glance. Perdita could feel almost sorry for him.
Almost. Berrington had met his match in this woman, and she’d been his nemesis. Now
Millicent assumed Perdita had the same motives as she had. But as much as Perdita told
herself she didn’t, she still felt dirty.
She left two slices of bread and butter and three little cakes on the plates for
Millicent, although it nearly killed her. Still, dinner would be soon enough.
Leaving the room, she found a footman outside. Charles’s annoyance when they
arrived had demonstrated how well-run he expected his houses to be, even when he
wasn’t in residence. So the footman outside the door was no surprise.
The man escorted her up another flight of stairs to a beautifully appointed set of
rooms, bedroom, sitting room and powder room, all to be hers while she remained here.
The bedroom was twice the size of the little attic in Liverpool. She would have given
anything to be back there now. Which was, of course, foolish, but she still felt that way.
A fresh gown lay on the bed. Furnished with fine linen, hung with brocade, the bed
was one of the finest she could wish for. Rare and expensive Chinese wallpaper hung
inside gilded panels on the wall and a fine looking-glass stood on the draped dressing
table, with a collection of silver-backed brushes, hand mirrors and little pots of cream and
other items. But she wanted that little room back, and all it contained. She could have
fallen in love with Charles there. Here, there were enough luxuries to effectively distance
them from each other.
She shed her borrowed travelling gown, stripping down to corset, shift and under-
petticoat, even peeling off her stockings. After a slight hesitation, she began to struggle
out of her corset.
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A soft knock came at the door. Thinking a maid had arrived to help her, she called
out “Come!” without looking. So when hard, masculine hands slid around her waist and a
male voice murmured, “Let me help you with that,” she gasped and pressed a hand
against her chest.
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Chapter Seventeen
“Lord, you startled me!”
He chuckled, the heat soft on her ear. “I came to see if you were all right. I never
thought I’d find my Liverpool nymph when I opened the door.”
“I thought you were a maid.”
“I can be, if you want me to be.”
“Charles, we can’t!”
He sighed. “We could, but only if you wished it.”
“Risk pregnancy again?”
He smiled. “Even that. Double the risk.” His hands lightly resting either side of her
waist were as good as a shackle. She couldn’t have moved away from him.
“Charles—” She felt herself falling under his spell again. Although dressed
respectably, he hadn’t yet transformed into the wonder of society. He was still the person
she was beginning to think of as her Charles, the one she knew but nobody else did.
“Hmm?” He sounded distracted, but since he’d managed to untie her stays at the
back and had his hand underneath, stroking her skin through her thin shift, that wasn’t
very surprising.
“How is—don’t you have—Charles?”
He chuckled and turned her around in his arms. “Don’t I have what?” He kept his
eyes on her face, which was very controlled of him, considering her state of undress.
“Things to do?”
“I’ve done them. Ordered some clothes for you to wear until your own arrive,
dispatched a letter to your brother’s house, settled Aimée, who is completely asleep in her
own nursery now, watched by a nursemaid, arranged for my steward to attend me in the
morning to deal with estate business—have I left anything out?”
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Perdita bit her lower lip, thinking of something, anything. Then she wondered why
she thought that. “Won’t the household suspect?”
He shook his head slowly. “My rooms are the other side of yours. The servants’
passage connects all the rooms on this hallway, so I don’t even have to use the main
corridor. They think I’m there, resting and I’ve given orders not to be disturbed.” He
leaned forward and kissed her forehead softly. “To be honest, I planned to ensure you
were comfortable and not too distressed by all the happenings, then leave you in peace,
but when you called out so sweetly, and I saw my nymph of Liverpool, any sense I might
have had left me and here I am.” He paused, and perused her from head to foot. “Wanting
you again.”
She could send him away and retain her self-respect. She could accept him and
pretend she was back in Liverpool where nobody cared about them or what they did, or
she could insist on marriage before he saw her like this again. Her mother would no
doubt insist on it. But her mother didn’t know. Charles had taken nothing from her that
she didn’t have before, had offered himself, nothing else, and she had found a happiness
and security in his arms, she instinctively knew she’d find nowhere else.
So she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Still a little uncertain whether he’d
accept her or not, whether he liked to lead all the time, if her forward gesture by kissing
him first was something he liked, but she couldn’t resist tasting him once more.
His response was everything she could have dreamed about, had her dreams been so
vivid. His arms went around her, folding her in to the heat of his body and he returned the
kiss, touching her lips with his tongue until she opened his mouth to let him in.
But as he took possession, so did she, entering his mouth to taste, touch and feel with
the exquisitely sensitive sensors on her tongue. Intimate and giving, she melted against
him, her whole body softening and heating. Just with one kiss.
He ended the kiss only to place soft, open-mouthed kisses at the corner of her mouth,
working down her neck to her cleavage, now openly on display. Her stays opened the
final few inches and with a whoosh of fabric, slid down her body to land on the floor. He
nudged her shift aside with his nose and slid his mouth down to her breast, arching her
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back over his arm so she presented them to him, for him. His voracious mouth enclosed
one nipple with no preparation, no warning and Perdita lost her balance. He held her up
with one arm, the other sweeping up her body from her knees, taking her shift with it so
he stroked bare skin.
His finger slid in between her folds, opening her up for him. She was helpless, the
suddenness of his attack taking her by surprise, but she wanted this. Wanted him. When
he slid his finger into her body, he paused and a groan reverberated deep in his throat, a
counterpoint to her gasps of astonishment and bliss. Her nipple left his mouth with a pop.
“You’re so wet!”
She was.
“Forgive me, sweetheart, I want you now. I have to take you now.”
After lifting her effortlessly, he strode across the room to the bed and lay her down
on the silk coverlet, the embroidery knobbly against her sensitive back. She wriggled to
move it aside but didn’t take her attention away from him.
When he wanted to, Charles could strip with amazing speed. Neckcloth, coat and
waistcoat fell to the floor in quick succession, speedily followed by breeches, underwear
and stockings. Perdita put her hands to her own garters, but he was on her, grasping her
hands. “Let me.” His gravelly voice even deeper with desire, he made quick work of her
garters, and rolled her stockings down her legs, making a sound of distress when he saw
the red marks the garters inevitably left.
His lips touched her, above her knee, where she tied off her stockings, and then his
tongue. Then with the rapidity of a man with a straining arousal, he slid up the bed to her
and over her and in her.
They both cried out at the bliss of being joined together again. He rose up on his
hands, staring at her face, his own flushed with desire. “I needed this. I wanted it so much
it’s a wonder I could keep my hands off you in the hall.”
She gazed at him in wonder. “You wanted me?”
He gave a hoarse laugh. “Oh yes.”
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His first hard drive deep into her body made her strain up towards him, eager to feel
all of him, inciting him to do more, push harder. He obliged, watching her. She kept her
eyes open, seeing what this did to him, how hard he thrust inside her.
When he bent to kiss her, Perdita felt him in her and knew no other man would do
for her. Whatever happened next, she’d always have this. His tongue in her mouth,
feverishly exploring, his body in hers, she gave herself up to the moment.
He tore his mouth away from hers, still working in her, deeply urging. “Peri, are you
ready? I can’t hold out much longer!”
She was. The surge of heat inside her built and grew until she gave a wordless cry,
drawn from the sheer intensity of her passion, pushing her hips off the bed, to take as
much of him as she could.
His steady, rhythmical pulses drove him into her heart and he collapsed over her,
heat pouring off him in waves. Deep inside, he pulsed too, as he sent his seed deep into
her body.
With a deep indrawn breath, he rolled over to one side, and took her with him, his
arms locked around her. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “I meant to withdraw, but…” He took
her lips, kissing her in the kind of kiss she hadn’t known existed before she met Charles.
He kissed so well. She relaxed into it, and gave back the passion he gave to her.
Eventually he drew away but his body still remained locked in hers, as if he couldn’t
bear to leave. He planted kisses on her nose, her forehead and her temples before
returning to her mouth. He kissed her for long moments before easing out of her body.
When she felt the flood of moisture accompanying his withdrawal, she heated up and
felt doubly glad she pushed the coverlet aside. “They’ll know,” she whispered.
“I’ll make sure the maid who changes your linens talks to no one,” he said firmly. “A
good bribe should ensure that. Does it concern you very much?”
“Yes of course.”
The M word remained unspoken. She still wanted him to come to her free of scandal,
but if they continued in this manner that would become impossible.
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With one last kiss, he pushed up and away from her, striding across the room, first to
turn the key in the lock, then to the washstand, where she’d poured water in the porcelain
bowl. He tested it, and grimaced. “Too cold.”
Grabbing the can of hot water, he seemed satisfied with the temperature and poured
some into the bowl. Then he threw a towel over his shoulder, added a washcloth and
sponge, put the soap on the little ledge protruding from the bowl and brought the whole
lot over to the bed, before lowering the bowl to the floor.
She watched him, bemused. “What are you doing?”
“You were washing when I interrupted you, weren’t you?” He smiled when she
blinked and nodded. “Then let’s continue where you left off.”
“What?”
“Just lie there, sweetheart and look good. That’s not hard for you to do.”
He pushed the sheets down before she realised she’d snagged them and covered her
scars. Although she knew she didn’t have to do that with him, old habits were engraved
in her soul and she must have done it when he left her.
She felt uncomfortable as she hadn’t when he’d lain over her, and effectively
covered her legs. But when he looked at her, his warm expression didn’t change one bit
when his gaze drifted up her legs to her unblemished face. “You still look good,” he
murmured, his voice no louder than a whisper. “More than good.” He was smiling when
he turned away to dip the washcloth in the water and rub the soap over it.
“Lift up.” He laid the towel under her and washed her. From head to foot and then
rinsed her with a clean cloth, lingering to caress when she responded. “You are lovely all
over, Peri. Your scars only show that you’ve lived, you’ve not hidden from life.”
“I did hide, once.” She wriggled closer when he swept the cloth up her inner thigh.
“For about a year—oh!”
Touching her with the cloth didn’t compare with using his fingers, but it still felt
good. The warm water caressed her, and the scented soap bathed her in clean, delicious
scents. She let her legs fall open, allowing him to wash all of her.
“You like that?”
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“I love it.” I love you.
She did. Horrified, she examined the words she’d so nearly said. She couldn’t bind
him with that. He enjoyed her body, but he’d never spoken those words, and she didn’t
expect him to. His first wife was his love, the love of his life her mother had told her.
Older, sophisticated, the centre of attention at the French court, he shared her limelight
and enhanced it. That was his ideal woman. Not a woman who’d hidden away for a year,
afraid to face people or what they might think of her. A coward.
Second best. If she were lucky. And she didn’t want that, unless forced into it.
She let him think she was enjoying his attentions, until she began to enjoy them
properly again. Pushing away the thoughts that had intruded, she remembered this might
be an experience she’d want to revisit in the future. She’d done a lot of that when she’d
secluded herself from society, brooded and remembered. There wasn’t a chance she’d do
that again, but she would keep these memories.
He took his time over her breasts, caressing them with a soapy hand as well as the
soapy cloth, and after he rinsed them, he paused to place a kiss on the tip of each nipple.
She rewarded him with a slight moan. Their lovemaking had left her exquisitely
sensitive.
“Turn over.”
She did as he asked, and revelled in the sweeps of warmth down her back, her spine
and over her buttocks, where he paused to caress her backside. He discovered sensitive
spots she’d never known about before, and wanted to explore, giving him sighs and
moans when he reached a very sensitive place. He caressed, kissed and washed her.
“I feel like a houri,” she murmured. “Having her favourite slave attend to her.”
He laughed. “Your slave whenever you want me, unless you find a better one.”
There it was again. The little caveat, distancing himself from her. She felt sure he
didn’t want her. Not really, not more than they had already.
“Sweetheart—” He sounded hesitant. She opened her eyes. He’d picked up the
sponge, and was turning it around in his hands before he lifted his gaze to her. She could
drown in that cool, green gaze.
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“Yes?” She hoped she sounded encouraging.
It seemed she did. “There is a way we can make love and help to prevent any—
unwanted outcomes.”
Babies. He didn’t want them. At least, he didn’t want them from her. She firmed her
smile, deliberately keeping it in place.
“How?”
He held up the sponge. “We can soak a small piece of sponge in brandy or vinegar
and push it inside your body. I learned about it in France. You leave it in for a while after
making love.”
Despite her regret, she was interested. “How do we stop it getting lost—inside?” She
felt her cheeks heat.
His laughter warmed her. “You’re lying naked in front of me and you can blush? Do
you know how delectable that makes you?” He sat back on his heels and she blushed
even more when she saw his reaction to her. He was erect, ready for her all over again.
“We tie a ribbon around it. Are you willing to try?”
She swallowed. “Yes. Will it hurt?”
“Not at all.”
When he crossed the room, she admired the way his toned muscles rippled under his
skin. He was still unashamedly naked, and she loved watching him.
This being his house, he knew exactly where to find the tantalus, which was
unlocked. Lifting the restraining bar out of the way he pulled one of the three decanters
and held it to the light. Amber liquid winked back at him. Smiling, he unstoppered it and
poured some into one of the tumblers set next to it, then put it down, still unstoppered,
while he tore a piece off the large sponge. Perdita held her breath when he poured the
brandy on to the sponge. Concentrating on his task, he didn’t see the single tear that left
her eye and trickled down her cheek before it lost itself in the pillow beneath her head.
He came back to her, carrying the tumbler, and a drop of brandy fell from between
his fingers. “Open your legs.”
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She did as he asked and watched as he slid his hand up her thighs, and over her folds,
mildly surprised at the ease with which he slid a finger deep inside her. “You look
wonderful, sweetheart. Lying there, legs open, ready for me, so pink and fresh.” She
trusted him. Listening to his soft words, she let herself relax and do what he needed to do.
He was right. It didn’t hurt. It felt a bit strange when he pushed the sponge inside,
but when it was in place, strangely she couldn’t feel it at all. “We mustn’t forget to go
fishing in the morning,” he murmured, then sat up and picked up the glass. He took a sip
and handed it to her. “Do you like brandy?”
She had to confess that she did. She accepted the glass and tasted it. Smooth, with a
fiery finish that slid down her throat, letting her know where it was all the way down.
“Mmm.”
“Glad you like it. Enjoy. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy my brandy from a different
receptacle.”
He leaned down and kissed her inner thigh. By the time she realised what he was
about, his mouth was on her and she was in heaven.
Perdita hadn’t even realised a man could do this, would even consider it, but he did it
so smoothly he gave her no chance between protestation and bliss.
She nearly spilled the brandy. Nearly. Glad she held a glassful, she swallowed some
more.
God. His tongue slid where his finger had been not long before, but it felt so
different. So right. He didn’t stop, but slipped right into her. Her cry only made him close
his mouth around her and complete the kiss.
What was he touching? How did he do that? Soft lapping replaced the kiss, and he
worked down to a place she’d only been subliminally aware of before. When he’d made
love to her, he’d touched a spot outside with his body, a spot that seemed charged with
sensation and now she realised that had been no accident. He ringed it with his tongue,
then suckled it. Blindly, she reached out and dumped the glass, hearing it hit wood but
unsure if she’d deposited it right way up or upside down. It didn’t really matter. It was
out of the way, which was what counted.
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She could hear him, he wasn’t trying to be quiet and the gentle slurping, which
should sound embarrassing only served to enhance her pleasure. His hands, warm on her
thighs, lay at rest, allowing her to concentrate on the amazing sensation between her legs
as he tongued and licked her.
Then she remembered something she’d seen as a little girl. A book in the library as it
had been before the house’s refurbishment. She’d only seen a couple of engravings and
read three words before Orlando had caught her and snatched the book away. At the time,
she’d wondered why the words were so naughty, why Orlando was so cross with her, but
now “an intimate kiss” took on a new meaning. This was an intimate kiss. The most
intimate possible, surely.
Except—the thought came to her mind—could she do this to him? Would he accept
that, was it acceptable, would he like it?
Everything felt larger, supersensitive, and that special part he was concentrating on
seemed full of sensation, spreading to the rest of her body, filling her with a warmth, a
tingling, preparatory feeling. This felt different to when he was inside her. Different, but
wonderful. Everything rose, peaked and she twisted under him, but his hands on her
thighs held her steady, refused to let her move.
This time she screamed, heedless of who might be listening. He took her to a world
she’d only ever shared with him, and while she peaked, crying out, he was with her. All
the way.
She was hardly aware of the next few minutes, but when she opened her eyes again,
he lay over her, waiting for her. She gave him a tentative smile and he kissed her, his
tongue tasting of brandy—and something else. “I’ll never take my brandy with anything
else,” he whispered. “I’ll take it neat—or with Peri.”
Only then did he move and she realised he was inside her. She made a sound deep in
her throat and he groaned in response. His arms slid around her and he rolled them over
to reverse their positions.
His wicked grin told her he enjoyed her confusion. “Your turn,” he said and pushed
her a little. “Sit up, my sweet. Let me see you. See us.”
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He pulled her knees so she drew them up along his sides and pushed up until she
rose. “Ah!” The new position brought new sensations. She felt all of him where he
touched her inside, the rounded head caressing her innermost being. His smile warmed
her. When they were like this she didn’t care about anything else. Only the joy he brought
her. She’d do anything he wanted.
Even though she knew that way disaster lay. Except he’d just suggested a way they
could have their love life without the inevitable consequence that would result. He’d
already protected her more than Conrad had ever cared to. And now he was introducing
her to delights she hadn’t dreamed of before.
His eyes on hers he said, “Now look. Look at us, where we join.”
She blinked, her mouth opening.
“Look, Peri. Are you afraid to see? Don’t be. It’s beautiful.”
She reached out her hand and he took it warmly in his before she found the courage
she needed. She looked down. And gasped.
His body in hers. Their intimate hair meshed, his dark, hers much lighter. His shaft
deeply buried in her. She could see the root, where it slid against her. He was right. It was
beautiful in a way she’d never imagined before.
Sharply she lifted her chin and met his dark eyes, made darker by his dilated pupils.
Dark with heat. Dark with desire. Need, for her. “You see?” he murmured.
Wordless, she nodded and then lifted and felt him slide out and in. He groaned again.
“Find your spot, find where it feels the best and then use it. Use me.”
She had to lean forward to balance her upper body on her hands, and by doing this,
she brought her breasts close to his mouth. But he didn’t kiss them, not immediately. He
waited, and when she felt his heated breath blow across them, they tingled and shrank
into tighter peaks.
Remembering what he’d said, she moved. And moved again. He braced his body
under her, but didn’t thrust back, just held himself steady for her pleasure. Up and down.
Finding a rhythm, she slid up and down his length, repeated it, shifted her body a little
and found the right spot for her.
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Then he took one nipple into his mouth, opened wide and sucked. Hard and deep.
Just as she was pleasuring them both. Her cry was both needy and delighted. She needed
him. She wanted him. She didn’t know if she could survive without him.
His tongue on the very point of her nipple, teasing and inciting, she controlled their
lovemaking, the power he gave her a delight to her senses. Nobody had given her that
kind of control, nobody. Ever. If she wanted she could stop, drive him mad with need, but
she didn’t want to, because depriving him would be to deprive her of something
wonderful.
She lost all sense of time and place, something he seemed to do effortlessly for her,
only their rhythm, the most perfect dance she’d ever performed. Since her accident, she’d
felt helpless. People looked after her, cared for her, told her what to do. Until she’d
helped her brother and Violetta last year she’d followed, obeyed. Now she’d found
herself. Her own woman at last. Charles had completed the rite of passage that set her
free.
She loved him for that.
Driving hard, she lifted until he nearly left her body, then slammed down on him,
loving his cry when he drove right to the heart of her without pause. Oh yes, this was
good. And he didn’t try to take over, he let her control their lovemaking. So she did,
lifting up to slam down on him repeatedly, giving him no mercy. He pushed up once,
twice then she felt the hot pulses inside her which she now knew meant he was coming.
For her.
Triumph swept through her when she realised she’d succeeded. The fact that she
hadn’t come didn’t mean anything to her. This was joy enough.
But it meant something to him. Although his hand shook, he reached down and
touched her where he’d tongued her earlier, pinched the small nub of flesh, released it
and pinched again.
A few seconds later, she shuddered in release and fell forward into his welcoming
arms.
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Charles held the woman in his arms, knowing he’d met his fate. She was his, and
only one thing would persuade him to let her go. If she wanted him to. As far as he was
concerned this only confirmed what he’d known in Liverpool; he wanted her more than
he’d wanted any other woman in his life before.
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Chapter Eighteen
Perdita slept most of the next morning away. She was more exhausted than she’d
admitted, even to herself, so Charles gave orders she wasn’t to be disturbed until she rang
for someone. While she slept, he’d washed her again, moved the towel that still lay under
her body, and left her, although he would have preferred to spend the whole night with
her. But he was tired, and he didn’t trust himself to wake in time to prevent the servants
seeing them together. Servants gossiped. His own valet was one thing; bribes and the
status given to his valet by his position would keep him quiet, but a gathering of servants
wasn’t so easy to control. One would tell another, and swear him to secrecy and before
long family networks ensured the whole of the county knew.
When his valet held out the day’s coat, he waved it away. “I’ll wear lavender today.”
Brooke bowed and left to find the lavender silk, his current favourite.
He wouldn’t allow any scandal to touch her. If it came close, he’d marry her and
woo her later. Much though he’d prefer to woo her now, and in their case, he hoped that
included a few more experiences like last night.
Perdita didn’t just follow where he led, she learned and applied her newfound
knowledge. With him she was bold, strong and wholly delightful. Addictive.
Charles had risen early, scaring Brooke half to death when he rang before nine for
his clothes. He had a lot of matters to see through. Although his steward was an excellent
one, he’d left some estate matters too long and they really needed attending to. Quarter
day was coming up, and he decided this time his tenants would meet him personally
when they came to pay their rent. Time he took his proper place. Time, in act, that he
grew up.
Finding his mate had galvanised him into the realisation that he couldn’t be a fop and
dandy for much longer. The disguise had done its job, and it was time to move on, find a
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new role for himself. Perhaps, at last, he could bear to reveal the true Charles
Petherbridge to the world.
The shudder of horror that went through him convinced him he should take matters
slowly. One thing at a time. But, as Brooke returned with the lavender silk coat, he could
decide on one thing. “No, not the lavender. That’s for town, I think. Bring me something
a little more sober. Green, maybe.”
Dressing was still an important part of his day and because it gave him pleasure, it
probably always would be.
Charles wore his coat of fine wool, with a waistcoat of cream ribbed silk
embroidered with spring flowers and bees—he might give some concessions to country
living but a waistcoat was an important statement to the world. A maid brought word to
him that two monogrammed coaches were heading up the drive. The lodge keeper had
sent his son running to the door, his butler loftily informed him, so he could be
forewarned.
“Did the lodge keeper recognise the monograms?”
“No, my lord, but they were definitely someone of consequence.”
“County?”
“Country.”
One of his own, then, and he had a strong suspicion who it was.
When he reached the hall to greet his guests he wasn’t entirely surprised when Lord
and Lady Taversall swept through the door, closely followed by their son and heir, Corin,
Lord Elston. They didn’t look pleased and Lady Taversall looked positively worried, the
lines around her mouth and eyes showing her age in the harsh morning light. But they
had enough sense not to gossip where the servants could overhear. When Charles
suggested that they adjourn to a parlour, and gave orders to set extra covers for breakfast
they followed him without demur to the blue drawing room.
Only when the door closed on them did her ladyship reveal her true feelings. “Where
is she?”
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A chill swept over Charles. “Who?”
“You know full well who! My daughter Perdita!”
He swung away from them, so he wouldn’t have to meet their too-intense stares.
Perdita had Lady Taversall’s eyes, he discovered in the fraught seconds when he’d met
them. “How did you know?”
“Two days ago, when I received a letter from Aunt Grace in Cumbria. She never
arrived there. She gave her escorts the slip.”
“Considering the events that occurred just before she left London, the rest wasn’t too
hard to work out,” her husband said.
Elston added his mite. “If you’ve hurt her I’ll call you out for it and damn any
scandal.”
“Corin!” His mother’s sharp reprimand didn’t abash her son, but he fell silent. “If
you haven’t seen her, then we must send riders and searchers without delay, because that
would mean she’s in danger. But when Corin made enquiries, it seemed you’d dropped
out of sight at the same time. Rumours are already flying that you’ve eloped with her.
Though why you would choose to do that when we were ready to receive your suit beats
all understanding. Still, society loves a good scandal and it’s about ready for a new one. It
had better not be another one about Perdita.”
“That’s all right, Mama, I do have something in place.”
Her ladyship rounded on her son. “Another mad scheme, Corin? I won’t have it!”
“Our mad schemes have turned out rather well so far, don’t you think?” Elston raised
a brow but smiled indulgently at his Mama. His expression hardened when he turned to
Charles. “So tell us and don’t waste our time. Have you seen her?”
Charles nodded. He couldn’t let them wait. “She’s upstairs, asleep, I believe. I gave
orders for her to be left until she woke naturally. She’s exhausted.” Mentally he went
over their story, trying to decide which parts to skim, and which parts to leave out
altogether.
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“Don’t make anything up,” Taversall said, accurately reading his mind. “If we’re to
get Perdita out of this scrape, we need to act together. Or were you just playing with
her?”
“No, by God!” Charles exclaimed, furious anyone should even consider such a thing.
“Perdita is the most courageous, worthy woman I have ever met and I would never do
such a thing to a woman like that!”
Leaving out all the more personal information, he told them the whole story. How
Perdita had taken it on herself to rescue Aimée. How she had found herself robbed and
left in the street. Lady Taversall shuddered at that part, but she didn’t interrupt him. How
he’d taken care of her and they’d found themselves on the ship. How foolish Millicent
had been, with the same man who’d come close to ruining Perdita.
“Wait,” Lady Taversall said, an arrested look coming to her face. “What’s that about
Berrington?”
At that moment the door opened and Charles swung around to order out the servant
who dared to enter. But it wasn’t a servant. It was Perdita.
She looked mouth-wateringly lovely in pale blue silk, her hair loosely caught up
leaving several curls to fall free in artful disarray. Charles was reminded forcibly of her
head against the pillow, her bright hair spread around her head like a halo, a delectable
frame for her face. Today her face was drawn and white. He hated to see her like that.
She ran forward and threw herself into her mother’s arms, but her embrace was
affectionate, not one of desperation or despair. His Perdita was made of stronger stuff
than that. “Mama, I am so pleased to see you!” She drew back and stared into her
mother’s face. “Is something wrong? Violetta?”
“Is very well, and pampered outrageously by her doting husband. Before you ask, the
baby is thriving, too. We left them completely besotted by each other, although Orlando
sends word he will ride over before too long. We had to prevent him coming with us this
morning. After all, we had no certainty that you would be here, only that his lordship was
back in residence.”
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Lady Taversall held her daughter off for a moment, staring intently into her face.
“Tell me about Berrington, my dear. The truth, now.”
Charles didn’t know Lady Taversall very well but he had the feeling that when she
spoke in that tone of voice, nobody disobeyed her. When she glanced up at him, he didn’t
need words to know she expected him to leave. Damned if he would. He stood his ground
although that look blasted him with fire. He wouldn’t leave his Perdita alone with her
formidable family, she needed somebody on her side.
Since when had she become his Perdita?
He left that question, unwilling to address it for now. Besides, Perdita was telling her
mother, in a faltering voice, about Berrington. Everything. Almost. How he’d seduced
her before she’d mounted her horse and galloped away. How she tumbled.
Lord Taversall’s face grew flushed with rage and Elston turned away, but Charles
saw, where his hand lay negligently against his side that it was shaking. He guessed
Elston was fighting the impulse to make a fist and hit something because that was how he
felt when Perdita first told him the story.
Over the head of her daughter, Lady Taversall’s glare became unbearable. “She told
me in Liverpool,” he said softly. “I have dealt with the situation.”
“I wish you hadn’t,” Taversall said in tones that were so restrained they were
frightening.
But Charles didn’t frighten easily. “Forgive me, but what Berrington did to Perdita,
he tried to do to my sister Millicent. I had the right.”
Taversall considered, then nodded. “You did.”
“He’s on his way to his plantation in America. He will not be coming back.”
Taversall looked satisfied, but it was only when Perdita spun around to face him,
horror etched on her features, that he realised what they might be thinking. “I did not
cause him to meet any fate he doesn’t bring on himself. The plantation is all he has left,
and I know these ventures require a great deal of hard work, and some luck. If he has
neither, he will fail. There will be nothing for him to return to. More importantly, he has
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ceased to be a threat to our sisters and daughters.” Taversall still glowered, but when
Elston turned to face him, Charles saw approval in the clear blue eyes.
He didn’t care if Elston approved or not, but he did recognise a fellow spirit deep in
the deep blue. Elston was an adventurer, a gamer, a man who liked to live on the edge of
life, and Charles had always thought of himself as the opposite, but something told him
he and Elston had a lot in common. Interesting.
“He’s gone,” Perdita said flatly. “That’s all that matters.”
“Indeed, my dear,” her mother agreed, and silence fell heavily in the room.
Charles saw Perdita’s family disappear behind their masks, as palpable as any heavy
maquillage he ever donned. What must it be like to have a family who cared for you?
He’d never know.
Lady Taversall fixed him with a hard stare. “So what now?”
He didn’t need more detail. “I have tried to give Perdita a choice. We have a story to
explain her disappearance, but until Millicent decided to stay with me, I wasn’t sure it
would work. With her presence, we have a chance.” He paused to ensure they were all
listening. They were, standing still as statues, only their breathing moving their clothing.
Charles found it unnerving, although he’d used the same trick himself a time or two.
“We keep as closely to the truth as possible. We say Millicent, Aimée and I were
visiting friends in the area, and we came across Lady Perdita, whose carriage had broken
down. We brought her with us when we took ship for Bristol to come home.”
Lord Taversall nodded, a brief, businesslike jerk of his head. “That should work.”
“I don’t like the coincidence,” Lady Taversall said, “and neither will society. Shall
we say you invited her to stay with you, or rather, Millicent did? She was supposed to be
travelling to Cumbria by easy stages so that would be feasible.”
He admired Lady Taversall’s inventiveness, but wondered if she’d had practice, she
told the story so smoothly.
“And after her carriage broke down she decided to return home with them instead of
continuing on their journey,” Elston added.
“I need to write to Aunt Grace,” Perdita said suddenly.
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“You do indeed, child.” Her mother regarded her daughter gravely and Charles
watched Perdita wilt under her hard stare. He wanted to pull her away and protect her,
although he knew she wouldn’t welcome it. “Perhaps you can show me where I may
write a letter, too. I need to let Orlando know we’re here and you’re safe.”
She glanced at her husband but Charles didn’t need that glance to know she was
taking Perdita away so the men could talk frankly. Perdita met his eyes, but he smiled.
“Your sitting room has a desk in it, or the maid will show you to the library, if you
prefer.” He tried to reassure her, as her wide eyes betrayed her apprehension. “Please,
Perdita.” He saw her stiffen before he realised he’d used her first name without her title.
It seemed so natural. So right.
No one reacted to his small betrayal, but they didn’t have to. They knew.
Perdita took her mother out of the room and for a moment the men watched each
other before Charles moved towards the decanter set on a small table in the corner.
“Refreshment, gentlemen? I have brandy, port and wine here, but I can send for
something else if you prefer.”
“No, thank you.” Both men spoke at the same time, and Charles knew if he took
some, they’d see it as a confession of weakness. So he didn’t.
“Then I suspect you want to know if Perdita and I indulged in each other while she
was under my protection.” He faced them calmly. He was a strong man but so were they
and if they wanted to, they could beat him to a pulp. He didn’t care.
“We would be interested, yes,” Taversall said, straightening the linen ruffle at his
wrist.
“None of your damned business,” Charles snapped. “I have no intention of
discussing my private affairs with anyone—anyone. I’m less inclined to discuss
Perdita’s.”
“He did, then, Father,” Elston said.
“But Berrington did first,” Taversall commented, his voice smooth as butter. “Perdita
just told us that, in so many words.”
She hadn’t said that, just that she’d allowed Berrington liberties, but it was enough.
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“Gentlemen, what Perdita and I do is our concern, no one else’s.” He waited to let
that sink in, and then added, “It isn’t your position as protector or guardian. She is seven
and twenty, well past the age of consent.”
“Then tell us as her family, people who care about her.”
He nodded. “I hoped you’d say that. I care about her, too. I will not abandon her,
gentlemen, nor will I force her into doing anything she doesn’t wish to do. We have
discussed the matter, between ourselves. If there is an imminent scandal, or if there is no
other way, we marry.” He hadn’t felt this nervous since facing his last prospective father-
in-law and in that case, the man had been half-drunk and totally uncaring of anything but
the marriage settlement. This was an entirely different prospect. “Otherwise, I’d prefer to
give her a choice.” He felt flayed raw, open as he’d never allowed himself to be before.
Not for years. So long he could hardly remember the last time, had it not been seared on
his memory.
“Gentlemen, I care for her and I’d like to court her.” Considering what they’d been
doing last night, he’d done more than court her. He wanted her so badly he could taste it.
He’d never get the taste of her out of her mouth and he never wanted to. “But I’d prefer
her to come to me free and unencumbered. No scandal, no obligations. I want it to be her
choice.”
“But if it becomes necessary, she will marry you, whatever both of you think about
the matter.” Taversall’s tone of voice was uncompromising. So it was as well Charles
agreed with him. He gave a terse nod and at last, both men moved, and sat down.
“I think I’d like that brandy now,” Lord Taversall said.
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Chapter Nineteen
The letters dispatched by messenger, Lord and Lady Taversall and Lord Elston
decided to stay for a while. Millicent kept to her room until she discovered Lord Elston
was a guest, when she decided to don her finest dinner gown and join them in the
drawing room.
Perdita watched her performance with growing distaste. Millicent had the heart of a
coquette. The sooner she was wed to a steady man, the better. For the first time in weeks,
Perdita thought of Lord Munshin. Good-looking, steadfast and reliable. He might be the
man for Millicent. Certainly she needed a steadying influence and Munshin had that to
spare. The only thing that spared her distaste was Lord Elston’s careful manners, not
attracting Millicent but not distancing her either. She knew Corin was a careful man, but
before tonight she hadn’t realised how careful.
What held her through the hellish dinner and even worse, the carefully polite social
gathering afterwards was the thought that later Charles would come to her. He hadn’t
promised, hadn’t even looked her way, but he didn’t need to. Desire and magnetic
attraction thrummed through her as if she were a needle pointing to her own personal
north. And for her, north was Charles, Lord Petherbridge.
At the end of the evening, Lady Taversall declared herself tired and asked her
husband to escort her to their room. As eagerly as polite manners allowed, he obeyed her
request, his hand warmly touching her back in support as they left. Perdita watched them
leave, feeling, as always, warmth that her mother had found the happiness she deserved
in her third and definitely last husband.
More tired than usual, Perdita retired early, and let her maid fuss over her, bringing
her a hot chocolate, and finding her a copy of the latest ladies’ magazine.
Relaxing in bed, she let her mind drift over her adventures, and wondered how on
earth these things happened to her. She was the daughter of an earl, supposed to be
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pampered, married off early and living under the safe protection of a good man these ten
years or so. None of these events had come to pass, but she wasn’t sorry. Even the years
of struggle with Orlando were worth it, as those years had forged a relationship between
brother and sister that nothing could break. She couldn’t even regret the mess she’d got
into with Berrington, and even her horrendous accident had brought benefits, in the
person of her brother’s wife Violetta, who had appeared to nurse her back to health, and
give her the confidence she needed to make her re-entrance into society.
But she could have done without the pain and the scars. Even in her current mellow
mood, she admitted that. At the time, she’d decided not to go on, but then Violetta had
arrived and helped her change her mind.
The quiet opening of the jib door startled her, and wide-eyed, she saw Charles enter
her room. He stood just inside the entrance, the door still open, revealing the dim,
unadorned passage behind, the one the servants used for necessary access. And lovers, it
seemed. “Am I welcome, or would you rather be alone?”
She nodded and watched him close the door quietly and put his candlestick down on
the small night-table by her bed before snuffing the candle. She smiled when he adjusted
the candlestick a little to bring it in line with the other one already set there. Charles had a
methodical streak she rather enjoyed. Especially when he employed it on her.
He crossed the room, and she thought how much she preferred this private Charles,
the one she’d first met at Lady Corrington’s the day his demon daughter decided to show
her up. Dressed in a loose robe and probably not a lot underneath, his head free of
elaborate wigs, his face clear of even a fine dusting of powder, this was the man she
preferred. She shied away from the word “love” again, but it was just a word. The reality
had already arrived.
He bent to kiss her, so natural she responded before she really considered. What was
she doing here? Providing him with a convenient lover, a friend? He’d introduced her to a
way of preventing pregnancy, did that mean he didn’t want a longer commitment? She
feared so. This time she’d let him go. This time she wouldn’t be stupid.
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He sat next to her on the chaise and frowned, studying her face far too closely.
“What’s wrong?”
Well there was one obvious thing she could say. She smiled back, keeping it easy.
“I’m not pregnant, Charles.”
“Oh.” Light dawned. “Oh!” Disappointment warred with relief and relief won. “I’m
glad. For you, I’m glad.”
“I’m glad for you, too.”
He didn’t let go her hand, she supposed that was something. Many men relieved of
that particular worry would bolt. At least he had better manners than to do that. “Me? Oh,
yes. That isn’t what I meant, Peri.”
She blinked. He still used his pet name for her, then. Perhaps he wanted their affair
to continue a little longer.
“It means you’re free to make any decision you wish. With the contrivance of your
mother, we can avoid any scandal, and if you’re not breeding, you aren’t obliged to any
decision. Peri, I know your freedom is important to you.”
Yes, he did. She’d shared more secrets with him than with anyone other than
Orlando and in a much shorter time. So she nodded. Yes, freedom was important to her.
When she thought she’d spend the rest of her life as a cripple she decided she wouldn’t
depend on anyone any more than was necessary. It said much for Charles’s perspicacity
that he understood that drive she had.
“That was why I worked so hard to give it to you. You can walk away from me, with
all you came to me with, and you can do it on your own terms. No scandal, no pregnancy.
If you wish to marry, you need only make the excuse that you did a lot of riding, or
something else and your husband will not question it. Your dowry will see to that.”
She nodded again. She knew that, too. “It would be difficult, but not impossible, but
I have no intention of doing it. I won’t start a marriage on a lie.”
“Do you have someone in mind?” He looked down, at her hand, as if he could read
her palm like a gypsy.
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Yes, she had someone in mind. But maybe he didn’t have her in mind. He’d fought
to give her her freedom, he said. Was that so he could be rid of her with a clear
conscience? “Should I have?”
He looked up and she held her breath. He seemed so intense, his eyes grave, as they
so often were in private, unlike his frivolous public persona. “Would you consider me?”
“For what?” Confused, she didn’t know what to think. “I thought you wanted free of
me.”
When she would have pulled her hand away, he retained it, tightening his grasp on
her. “Why would you think that?” She looked away, but he wouldn’t let her back off.
“Come, Peri, tell me.”
She swallowed. What could she say except the truth? “You’ve done your best to free
me of scandal, to make sure I could walk away and not suffer from the consequences. At
least, no more than I came to you with.” Blinking hard, she continued to keep her voice
low, the easier to control tone and steadiness. “We came together, as you put it, in very
unusual circumstances. Out of time, out of our normal lives. So I thought you might have
realised that we wouldn’t suit. Not for everyday living.”
“No.” With his free hand he lifted her chin so she had to meet his eyes. “That’s not
it. The circumstances were different, but you aren’t. And I’m not, either. It meant I got to
know you much more intimately than I normally would have done. And I don’t mean in
bed, Peri. I mean to live with someone, cater to their needs and talk. We had little to do in
the evenings but talk, didn’t we? Until the last night. Before I met you in Liverpool I had
feelings for you, but I was willing to give it time, let us get to know each other properly. I
would accept the invitation to Blyth’s house, escort you, ride with you and court you
properly. I’ll still do that if you want it. But those days in the same room meant I got to
know you much faster, much more intimately. No, don’t look away. Marriage is more
than that, more than what we do between the sheets, although God knows that is perfect.
We suit. I’m convinced of it. So will you marry me, Perdita?”
She stared at him. He dropped his hand, but she continued to stare at him. “Why?”
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He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Closed his eyes and opened them again.
Then smiled. “Because I love you, Perdita. I could give you a lot of other reasons, but
that’s what it all comes down to. I love you.”
It was the only answer that would do right at this moment. The only answer she
wanted. She might have said yes without that, because she loved him too much to let him
walk away.
She seemed frozen, completely unable to move or speak or think, but slowly she
regained her senses. “You—you—”
“I love you, Peri. I want you to be part of my life. To stand at my side, to help look
after Aimée, to help with my houses, and my public life. To sleep with me every night—”
She must have shown her shock. In her world, couples rarely slept together, apart
from her immediate family and they didn’t advertise the fact. But Charles wasn’t part of
her family and she doubted he slept with his late wife.
He laughed. “I’ve become accustomed to holding a fairy in my arms when I go to
sleep and I want more of it. Please say yes, Peri. Marry me.”
What else could she say but “Yes.”
He pulled her into his arms and took her mouth in a long, sweet kiss. He invaded her
senses, stroking her mouth with his tongue, holding her close so her breasts squashed
against his chest. He didn’t let her go for a long time, then, without taking his eyes from
hers, stood up and bent to lift her. He took her to the bed and laid her gently down before
putting his hands to the tie of his robe.
“Charles, I don’t think—”
“Hush, love. I just want to hold you. Are you in pain?”
She smiled up at him. “Not now. I was a little, earlier this evening.”
“I thought you were out of sorts. Let me take care of you.”
“It isn’t—I mean I don’t—”
“Don’t think now.”
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He folded the coverlet back and the sheet before gently undoing the front fastenings
of her gown. Embarrassed, she moved away, but he moved her back. “No, please. Trust
me, Peri.”
She forced herself to allow him to help. He removed the gown with gentle hands and
laid it at the foot of the bed. She was left in her shift, and the necessary accoutrements for
this time of the month, but her shift was one of the heavier ones she tended to use in the
winter. She just felt like she needed it tonight.
Her monthly courses were a source of embarrassment to her. She usually reduced her
social commitments and rested. And now she felt worse. Tonight should have been a time
for lovemaking and sensual pleasures, but she couldn’t.
Charles stripped off his robe and as she’d thought, he was naked underneath. He slid
into bed and drew her into his arms, before pulling the sheet up over them. Although the
weather was a little cooler than it had been in Liverpool, it was still summer and they
needed nothing else. They didn’t really need the sheet, but Charles seemed to understand
her need to hide away.
“Charles, I can’t give you anything tonight.”
“I know, and you’re wrong. You can. You can let me hold you and share our
happiness. We have plans to make, my love, and I want you to be comfortable. So you
must tell me if you’re not.”
She wasn’t. Her back hurt, her stomach ached and so did her head but she did feel
better in bed. “I’m fine.”
He kissed her forehead. “You’re pale, you feel warmer than usual, even taking the
weather into consideration and you’re holding yourself very carefully. But I’ll accept
your word if you promise to tell me if you need anything.”
“I promise.”
“Good.”
She wriggled, which made her thigh come into contact with his very healthy
erection. Before she could squirm away, he reached down and held her still. “Don’t. That
feels good.”
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“But—”
“But nothing. I’m a man, not an unthinking animal. All I have is a clear
demonstration that you excite me as few other women do. All the time, every day. And I
want that to continue. Peri, thank you.”
“For what?”
“For accepting my offer. I don’t want there to be any delay. Not if you’re sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll marry you, Charles.” At the beginning of the year, all she’d
wanted was to take her place in society again, unobtrusively slip back into place. Now
she wanted so much more. She still wasn’t sure she’d get them. “I—I love you.”
“And I love you, too.” The next few moments were lost in kisses and gentle caresses.
His hands, always warm, felt wonderful on her back, stroking from her waist to her
shoulder blades and back again, smoothing away her pain. She relaxed into his hands,
returned his kisses.
“If you like it, we can be married in three weeks.”
She caught her breath. “Three weeks?”
“That’s all we need to arrange for the banns to be read. I don’t want an elaborate
wedding. If you do, then I’ll be patient and wait. But I’ll speak to your parents tomorrow,
then we can travel to your brother’s house and be married from there.”
“You’ve only just got home!”
He smoothed her back. “Home is where you are, my love. I looked over estate
business this morning and the most pressing is done. Everything else can wait. I’ll see the
local vicar tomorrow, and we can travel to Blyth Court the day after. Then see your
minister. I could send to London for a special license if you want to marry even sooner.”
His hand stilled for a moment before resuming its gentle stroking. “In fact, that’s not a
bad idea.”
“No, no, I can wait.”
“Ah, but I don’t know if I can.” He smiled down at her and stole another kiss.
“You’re too lovely for me to resist.” Heat rose to her cheeks. “But we don’t have to wait
for that,” he continued.
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“Don’t you think we should?” She realised he was teasing when he laughed.
“I don’t know if I can. You are delicious, Peri, delectable, irresistible.” He
punctuated his words with kisses and she finally relaxed into his arms. He made her feel
safe. Even in that little room in Liverpool, when she’d woken up not knowing where she
was or what had happened, the sight of him calmed her and made her feel completely
safe.
“Charles, why do you want me?”
A strand of hair had come loose from one of her nighttime braids and he twined it
around one of his large fingers. “You can ask that? You’re lovely, you’re funny, someone
I can actually talk to. As well as being completely irresistible in bed.” With a mock
growl, he rolled her on to her back and swooped down for a more passionate kiss. He
pressed his body against hers, his erection pushing up against her thigh and without
thinking, she pushed back. He groaned.
This couldn’t go any further. It counted as teasing, surely? But she was so happy, she
wanted to do whatever he wanted. Anything.
She reached between them and grasped him. He gasped in their kiss, and pulled
back. “Peri, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” she said, before he could pull the rest of his body away from her. “Please
Charles. Let me.”
“As if I could stop you doing anything you wanted to!”
It was her turn to push him on to his back, and take his mouth in a kiss as passionate
as she could make it. Which, as it turned out, was quite a lot. He curled his arms around
her, but didn’t prevent her exploring him.
Perdita found the novelty of having a naked man at her mercy far more interesting
than she’d ever imagined. Not that she’d imagined anything like this before. She took her
time exploring his chest, broad, sprinkled lavishly with dark hair, softer than she’d
imagined a man’s chest hair could be. Tentatively, then with more confidence, she
explored it before kissing her way to one nipple. If she liked it, then he might, too.
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He did. She was fascinated to discover that his nipple tightened to a hard bud,
smaller than hers in a similar situation. Fascinating to tease. She flicked her tongue across
it, waiting for his groan.
He buried his fingers in her hair, tunnelling under her braids which were slowly
loosening. Not to restrain her, but to feel her. She moved freely under his hand, finally
deciding to move on after playing with his nipples until he moved under her to wriggle
away. Oversensitive. She liked that. The power of controlling his sensations.
She kissed down his chest, loving the feel of hard muscle under smooth skin with the
tickle of chest hair. When she reached his navel she teased and kissed, exploring and
discovering what he liked and what he reacted to the most.
She’d never understood this part of physical love before, the learning process, that
pleasing her lover could be as wonderful as being pleased. She had so much to learn.
Just inside his hipbones lay another sensitive spot, that when she licked it, made him
moan, but the eventual object of her attentions lay hot and heavy under her body. She
pretended to ignore it, pretended that his hips fascinated her, but all the time she knew
where she wanted to go. Just not what she wanted to do when she got there.
“Please.” That hoarse whisper galvanised her as nothing else could have done. She
moved across and without allowing herself to think, took him into her mouth.
He felt good. Wonderfully warm, silky skin over hard muscle, and a pulse throbbing
through it all. She loved the feel of him in her mouth. After a few tentative sucks, she
tried licking, sweeping her tongue under his head, feeling the ridge there. Hearing his soft
moans escalate. He twisted a little, moving inside her, and she opened her mouth and
breathed on him.
“Witch!”
She went back to her task, light at heart. Yes, she could spend a very long time doing
this. He tasted good, he felt good.
Balancing on one elbow, she brought her free hand into play, and cradled his balls.
Two egg-shaped, smooth shapes encased in loose skin, which tightened as she caressed
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them. The changes she made in him enthralled her. And he let her do it. He kept his
hands on her head, caressing her hair which slowly loosened and fell about her face.
Suddenly his hands tightened, and she felt his balls draw up. She knew what was
about to happen. When he tried to drag her away, she resisted. She wanted all of this, the
whole experience.
He cried out, and she felt him, warm and wet, hit the back of her throat. She
swallowed. His essence, the man she loved. Salty, but not unpleasant, she thought almost
dispassionately.
And him.
He went on longer than she’d thought, but finally he ceased and his whole body went
lax under her. Only then did she release him and slide up his body.
Charles seized her and took her in a long, sensuous kiss. He licked into her,
exploring her mouth, his hands warm on her back. He didn’t release her for a long time,
but eventually rolled her to one side and cradled her close.
“Sweetheart, what did I do to deserve you? It must have been something very good,”
he murmured, his breath hot on her face as he pressed soft kisses to her temple, her nose
and finally her mouth.
Could this strong, loving man be the same haughty, painted aristocrat she’d faced in
London? Perdita was finding it increasingly difficult to reconcile the two. They were like
separate people. Right now the man cradling her, the one with the powerful body and
handsome features, this was her Charles, the one she loved.
Perhaps he wouldn’t turn back into the Marquess of Petherbridge. She could only
hope.
“I wish I could reciprocate,” he murmured.
She smiled brightly at him. “You will, Charles. I’m sure of it.”
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Chapter Twenty
Perdita sat in the small sitting room separating her room and Charles’s when her
mother swept in. To her relief, Lady Taversall was all smiles. Her stepfather followed,
and he was smiling, too. After him came Charles.
Lady Taversall took her hands as she got to her feet to greet them. “My love, I
couldn’t be more pleased! Lord Petherbridge tells me there is affection between you. Is
that true?” Perdita looked up as Charles reached her side. Before she masked her
expression, Lady Taversall caught it. She could never hide anything from her mother,
although she’d tried a time or two. “I see there is.”
But she saw the proud Lord Petherbridge. Immaculately dressed, a maquillage firmly
in place, this was the fashionable exquisite of London, the man who made her wary. The
man she didn’t really know. But she placed her hand on his arm when he held it out for
her. She fixed her expression, held it in place and turned back to her mother. Behind
Lady Taversall, her husband frowned slightly, but his face cleared when he saw her
untroubled expression. “I’m very pleased for both of you.”
“We shall go together to Blyth Court, my love, and turn the celebration into a double
one,” her mother continued. “Since today is Friday, we have time to see the vicar here
and the one in the village and arrange for banns to be read.”
“A little old-fashioned, but the tenants will like it,” Lord Taversall remarked.
It was more usual to purchase a licence dispensing with the banns, but Perdita
understood what her stepfather meant. For years, Blyth Court was run down by her
father, in his search for wilder and more expensive pleasures. When he died he left it, and
the estate, destitute. He would have sold it had he been able, but the entail on the Blyth
lands covered almost all the holdings, and so all he could do was mortgage the lands and
borrow. Until the lines of credit dried up. Then it took Orlando ten years to begin the
regeneration. After they sold the huge London house, which the late Lord Blyth had left
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until last, the money re-invested in small houses, it took five years to generate enough
money to start to restore the country estate.
So the tenants were understandably edgy and wary of the whole Garland family. The
news of her betrothal would be extremely good for that, and the best way to disseminate
the news would be for the banns to be read.
For that matter, marrying a powerful and wealthy neighbour wouldn’t do the Blyth
fortunes any harm, and for that, she was glad. Orlando deserved some luck. With his new
wife and his new fortune, she could finally help, give him something back for all the
years of support.
But suddenly, Charles seemed like a stranger and events were running out of her
control. Her mother’s plans rolled over her, and all she had to do was smile and be happy.
Charles rarely left her side for the rest of the day, although he took her upstairs to the
nursery later in the afternoon. Typical of him not to send for his daughter, but to go and
see her.
Perdita felt guilty. The child had been through an ordeal, first her kidnapping, then
seasickness before returning home to familiar territory. And she’d been so caught up in
her own dilemmas she hadn’t given Aimée much thought.
She’d try to make up for that now. But the first thing she saw when she entered the
nursery was Aimée’s hard glare. She wasn’t even touching Charles.
It might be that the child’s blue eyes had that expression naturally. Some people who
weren’t, just looked like that. Maybe Aimée was a loving child. She certainly showed a
lot of love to her father, throwing herself at him, heedless of his fine clothes and
maquillage. She smothered his face in kisses, calling out “Papa! Papa!” as if he’d been
away for years, not for hours.
Perdita found herself becoming annoyed, although she tamped it down. She was the
adult here and she strongly suspected jealousy held a large part in her reactions, which in
its turn led to guilt, and back to annoyance that a child could get under her skin in such a
way.
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But Aimée kept her head on her father’s shoulder and glared at Perdita. Nevertheless,
she smiled at the child.
“A new mama, my darling! Won’t you like that?”
“Yes, Papa.” Aimée made her affirmation sound bored and obedient.
“That’s my good girl! Have you been good today?”
“I missed you, Papa.” He also missed the glance the nursery maid sent Aimée.
Perdita didn’t miss it. Not baleful or spiteful, merely weary.
“I’d like to take some time to get to know you properly, Aimée,” she said,
determined to do her best to give the child the best chance she could. She’d have to live
with this child, share her with Charles.
Her heart sank just a little.
Charles put Aimée down but retained hold of her hand. A picture book child,
beautifully blonde, wide, blue eyes, dressed exquisitely in silks she couldn’t possibly play
in, surrounded by luxury. Aimée had dolls, baby houses, games and books, everything
she could possibly want. And yet there was a sullen turn to her mouth. Perdita would
have given anything for just one of the dolls when she was little, but she’d been happy
enough with her big brother and her mother. And later, she’d been part of the Taversall
nursery and while they hadn’t wanted for anything, they hadn’t been spoiled, either. And
they’d worn more practical garments, clothes they could play in. She wondered if Aimée
might be happier in more sensible clothes.
“Have you thought of a governess for Aimée?” she ventured.
Charles shot her a speculative look. “Do you think she needs one?”
“Only that you said Aimée was a bright child and so she might appreciate the
opportunity.” No, that wasn’t true. Not entirely. But it would do for a start. “She’s five,
nearly six years old. Does she know her letters?”
“Ask her.” Now she saw where Aimée got her mulish turn of mouth. Charles was
showing it now.
“Would you like to learn your lessons, Aimée?” Perdita smiled and felt like Judas.
This was not going well.
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Aimée tightened her clutch on her father’s hand, and moved closer to him. “I don’t
know. Can’t Papa teach me?”
“I can’t teach you everything, my darling.”
“Will you still read to me at night? Every night? Will you come and share my dinner
sometimes, or will you be too busy with your new wife?”
“Your new mama, as well, dear. We can both do that.”
Aimée cheered up and positively beamed at Perdita. “You will?”
“Of course.”
“And in time we might give you a brother or sister to play with.”
That was the wrong thing to say. Aimée’s smile changed to a glare in the blink of an
eye. “I’m happy with you, Papa.”
“And your new mama.”
“Yes, Papa.” She didn’t sound bad.
Perdita began to feel distinctly out of place, unwanted and unneeded. Aimée
compounded that feeling by her next words. “May I come to your room tonight, Papa?”
“Do you need to, minou?” His attention was all on Aimée, then he glanced up to
Perdita. “She has nightmares.”
Perdita sent them a look of sympathy. Most of her nightmares had been waking ones.
Her sleep had always been relatively untroubled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“So she comes and cuddles in bed with me sometimes. I take her back when she’s
asleep. Usually.”
Perdita listened, appalled. What child gave her nursemaid the slip and went down to
her father? How could he allow such a thing?
“The child is pampered. She twists her father around her little finger,” Perdita said to
her mother later, over tea in her sitting room.
Lady Taversall frowned. “Why should she have nightmares? The child was born into
wealth, pampered from birth. Do you think anyone was cruel to her?”
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Perdita shook her head. “I don’t think so. Charles adored her mother, or so you told
me, and they lived at their hotel in Paris for the most part.”
“Not in Versailles? I thought the last Lady Petherbridge was a favourite at court and
King Louis tends to prefer to keep his favoured courtiers close. Perhaps they thought the
court an unsuitable place for a child.” Lady Taversall picked up her tea-dish. “I can only
commend them for that.”
“Perhaps.”
“But she’s an only child. And when she lost her mother, that might have unsettled
Aimée. You will have to be kind to her, Perdita.”
Perdita leaned back in her chair and sighed. “She’s spoiled, Mama. And jealous.”
“She’s bound to be, seeing her father marry a virtual stranger. In the coming visit, try
to get to know her, and understand her a little better. Try to be patient, Perdita. I know
that’s not your strong point, but you will have to find it from somewhere. You’re the
adult now.”
Perdita sighed. “Yes, you’re right. I’m tired. That must be it.”
But she wasn’t entirely convinced.
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Chapter Twenty-One
Travelling with a sullen Millicent would never be a thankful task, so Perdita was
glad it was only a short journey, less than a day. The girl, so subdued after her adventure,
was regaining some of her spirit, and while Perdita rejoiced to see it, sometimes she
wished she could see it from a bit further away.
Marrying Charles wouldn’t be the happy ever after she yearned for if she didn’t think
of something soon. But what that something was passed her understanding. Perhaps
Orlando would think of something. No, she couldn’t do that. His new son should take all
his attention and she couldn’t take anything away from that. Wouldn’t.
With relief, she saw the central tower of Blyth Court come into view. She
remembered it destitute, when ravens had circled the tower, birds of prey waiting for the
last Garland to fall, and now, clean, prosperous and once again on the social circuit of
Places To Be Seen In.
They hadn’t left quite as quickly as they’d liked, but a messenger had been
dispatched to Blyth Court and the banns arranged. Two down, one to go, then their
marriage. In the village church rather than the Court’s private chapel. The church had
been paid for by a long-dead Garland, so it was a grand edifice for a small village, but
many villages in England had something similar, often containing a private chapel with
the graves of the benefactors and their descendants. St. Olaf’s was no different.
Perdita leaned back and closed her eyes, at last relaxing after the journey. Millicent’s
glares tired her more than Aimée’s constant chatter, if that were possible. The child
seemed determined to dominate her father’s company and for the last week. Perdita had
backed off, determined not to turn poor Charles into a battlefield for them. He hadn’t
visited her bed recently, either. Aimée’s nightmares meant she needed him every night,
and they couldn’t risk the child discovering them. Perdita missed him.
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Her mother had made it quite clear she did not intend to interfere, but secretly
Perdita doubted she had the patience to wait. The day her mother didn’t interfere,
covertly or openly, was the day she lost the will to live.
She didn’t open her eyes when she felt the ride change. Their carriage had the latest
suspension, but even that could detect the difference between the open road and the
gravel drive leading up to the Court. In the old days, the drive had worse pot-holes than
the road, but now Orlando made sure it was weed-free and any holes filled. Two bends,
three and then the rattle of the cattle grid under the carriage wheels, before they were on
the main straight part leading up to the front door. Only when the carriage rounded the
last curve around the ornamental pond in front of the house did she open her eyes and
blink, as if she’d been sleeping for the last ten miles instead of pretending to.
Of course, the first thing she saw was Millicent’s mutinous glare. Charles was
travelling with his daughter and Lord and Lady Taversall in the coach they arrived in.
Together with the luggage coach that made quite an entourage.
No doubt the lodge informed them of their arrival, because Orlando was waiting for
them at the top of the steps. It seemed so long since she’d seen him. But he looked much
the same, except he was smiling broadly. Orlando never used to smile a great deal. A
change for the better.
Perdita could hardly wait for the footman to let the steps down, but she had to.
Leaping down to the ground and collapsing in an ignominious heap wasn’t the way she
wanted to arrive.
Her parents had already gone inside when she climbed the steps behind Millicent,
and Charles followed her, carrying a beribboned Aimée. Millicent showed Orlando all the
cordiality she’d denied Perdita in the carriage and followed the Taversalls inside. Perdita
threw herself into her brother’s arms. Laughing, he held her off. “You’ve been very busy,
Perdita my love! I’m glad to see you so well!”
“I am well.”
He glanced over her shoulder at Charles. “And you looked after her.”
“Of course.” Charles sounded steady and unabashed, despite Orlando’s frosty stare.
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“Orlando, you mustn’t blame Charles for what happened. He only rescued me and
made sure I didn’t come to any more harm.”
“More harm? What have you been up to?”
She laughed. “I’m here now, so what does it matter? But I’ll tell you the whole, I
promise.”
“I too. I’m not insensible of the fact that you are Perdita’s legal guardian until our
marriage.”
Orlando sighed. “Yes, for want of a better. We’ll need to discuss the settlement,
although Taversall tells me he’s discussed the outline with you.”
Perdita frowned. “And so I have no say in my own fortune and my own future?”
“You already did, sister, when you accepted Lord Petherbridge’s offer. But I’ll show
you the settlement if you wish it, and of course you’ll have a say.” He regarded her for a
moment then took her arm to lead her inside. She knew that look. And she was right.
Orlando efficiently dispatched Charles upstairs with a maid to settle Aimée in the
nursery, and Millicent to her room. He did it with such smoothness she hardly noticed
them leave. Or she wouldn’t have done. He took her downstairs to the tenants’ office, the
plain room where he received rents on quarter day, but today the stone-flagged room was
empty, the circular drum table with its many drawers clear of account books.
He sat her on a hard-backed chair next to the window and drew another up to join it.
“I don’t think we’ll have much time. I want to show you your new nephew before too
long, and Violetta will want to see you.”
“I’m surprised she’s not here.”
“She’s lying down. She has an afternoon nap, though I don’t think she’ll take that for
very long.” He grinned. “She’s already rebelling.”
She grinned back. “I can imagine the tactics you’ve been using to keep her there.”
She was fascinated to see her brother blush. To her knowledge, he’d never done that
before.
“Enough, witch. Tell me the truth now. All of it. And quickly, if you please.”
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So she told him the absolute truth, only leaving out the lovemaking, but she could
see by the speculative expression in his bright eyes that he’d guessed those parts. Since
she’d disturbed Orlando with Violetta a time or two before they married that shouldn’t be
too much of a surprise.
She also told him about Berrington, and in that case, she didn’t leave anything out. “I
only failed to tell you everything before because I knew you’d kill him. And that
wouldn’t have helped anyone.”
Orlando’s mouth settled into a grim line. “You’re absolutely right. I’m surprised
Petherbridge didn’t kill him. He violated you and his sister.”
“I persuaded him not to. For the same reason. Would you really like to be hanged for
a weasel like him? He’s gone to a living death instead. His plantation isn’t doing well; he
won’t have a luxurious life. The mosquitoes will probably kill him before the year is
out.”
“Still.” Orlando frowned. “He deserved it.”
“He’s a worm, and he’s gone. He won’t use any other young woman like that again.”
“How can you be so sure? Are there no young ladies in America?”
“Not where he’s going.”
His eyebrows lifted. “You know where?”
“He used to talk to me about it, spun a tale about his beautiful holdings in America.
You remember the Whitesides, that American couple who came over from America a few
years ago?” They’d moved to one of the houses built on the Garland estate in London and
had a daughter Perdita had befriended. Orlando nodded. “I wrote to them and they made
enquiries for me. The ‘plantation’ is a smallholding in the South, on marshy land, good
for nothing. Miles from anywhere. So he won’t be back, I’m pretty sure of it.”
Orlando squeezed her hands when she blinked hard. She could never hide anything
from him. Not that she was trying to. “You’ve been brave. I could spank you for keeping
Berrington’s full crime from me. I could have arranged something for him.”
“A blot on your soul, Orlando. How could I do that?” Something that would bear on
him for a long time, perhaps forever.
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A flicker of a smile flitted across his mouth before he stood and pulled her to her
feet. “Now tell me. Are you happy with Petherbridge?”
She met his eyes. “Very.” It was the truth. Millicent and Aimée were different
stories, but she loved Charles, and always would.
Back in her old room, the whole of the last six months could have happened to
someone else. Time stood still here, from the refurbishment the room had with the rest of
the house three years before. The walls of watered blue silk set in panels, echoed in the
curtains and bed draperies were the same, her maid had arrived and set her familiar
toiletry set on the draped dressing table, and the bedcovers were turned down, inviting
her to lie down and take her nap. It was tempting, and no one would be offended if she
sent down her regrets, but she didn’t want to. Her stamina had increased along with her
adventure and any vestige of invalid behaviour was entirely gone.
So she set out for Violetta’s apartments, set conveniently close to Orlando’s and
spent the rest of the afternoon with the most adorable baby she’d ever seen and her sister-
in-law. Wicked confidences were exchanged and the women quickly re-established the
closeness of sisters.
“You will not marry him, you know.”
Perdita spun around. She’d thought she could steal half an hour to herself. It was the
afternoon after their arrival and already she’d met half the county who came to their
doors to wish the happy couple every happiness. Her jaw ached from smiling. Charles,
until half an hour ago by her side had gone to the nursery and she’d promised to join him,
but she’d promised herself this half hour.
Who’d have thought anyone would seek her out in this, the old part of the house few
people used? The old Tudor parlour was almost devoid of furniture, the closest to the
state of the house pre-renovation but she’d always loved it, the sense of peace that
permeated this room and the view from the windows over the rose garden beyond.
Already the weather had turned hot, too hot to enjoy strolling among the rose beds but the
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second best was a glass of lemonade in the cool of this north-facing room and some peace
to gather her thoughts. But someone had sought her out and tracked her down.
Millicent.
Inwardly sighing, Perdita faced the girl.
Millicent’s thin mouth pursed into a tight line, a deep furrow between her brows. “I
can’t let you marry my brother. You won’t make him happy.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
Millicent shrugged and moved into the room, trying to behave nonchalantly. She
looked past Perdita’s shoulder out the window. “Did you ever meet Charles’s first wife?”
“No.” If that was the best she could do, she’d better think of something else. Perdita
had no intention of fighting with a dead wife for Charles’s attention but so far, she’d seen
no ghost in his behaviour to her.
“She was beautiful. Stunningly beautiful. Not like you.”
“Not like me,” Perdita agreed.
“Tall, dark-haired, with startling green eyes,” Millicent said. Despite her
determination not to let the woman annoy her, Perdita was fascinated. She’d seen
portraits of the last Lady Petherbridge, but her hair had been powdered and she was in
full court dress of the French court. The portraits had been so stylised she had no sense of
the real woman inside the elaborate costumes. “A leader of the court in Versailles.
Everyone knew her and they loved her. That’s right, they loved her! I visited them several
times and every time their hotel was full of the fashionable and they spent most of their
time at court. With the king.” A drop of spittle shot out of Millicent’s mouth and Perdita
took a step back. “That’s right, the king! You wouldn’t last five minutes with him. He’d
never have you around him. You can’t hold a candle to her. A countess in her own right,
she didn’t need Charles to lend her consequence. He needed her. That’s right, to lend him
countenance. He learned from her. How to lead society. And now he does. What does he
need you for? Everyone knows how you and your brother struggled for years to get even
this far! You can’t hold him, not after a woman like her. She was famous.”
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Perdita listened to Millicent’s outburst patiently. She couldn’t have interrupted her
without raising her voice to a level she found uncomfortable and she had no desire to
compete with Millicent’s shrill tones.
Instead, she simply said, “Do you feel better now?” and waited. If Millicent didn’t
stand between her and the door, she would have left at that point.
“I won’t feel better until you’re out of my life for good. I’ll do everything I can to
make sure you don’t marry him.”
An inkling of the truth dawned on her. “You still think you could have made a
success of your life with Berrington.”
“No.” She cut off her sharp negative with a snap of her teeth. “I would have gone
with him had I thought so.”
“What changed your mind?”
Millicent sneered. “I had second thoughts.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“How dare you!” A dark flush mantled her cheeks. “Bringing me down to your
level!”
“Are you telling me you didn’t make love with him? Because if you deny it I won’t
believe you.” Berrington would never keep his body to himself if he had a halfway
attractive girl in his clutches. Millicent probably gave herself as eagerly as Perdita had
done.
Millicent’s mouth opened, then closed before she opened her mouth and had another
try. “It’s none of your concern. None of it will be, in a few days. Behave decently and
call it off. You can’t possibly make Charles a proper wife. It won’t take long for him to
see through your schemes and devices.”
With an effort, Perdita held on to her temper. Millicent was hurting, that was obvious
but that didn’t give her the excuse for this spiteful behaviour. “I only hope, Millicent, that
you don’t confide in anyone else, because they won’t listen to you. I suggest you take
some time in here alone to think things over.”
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Uncaring whether Millicent would retaliate, she shoved past her and reached the
door. She pushed it open with trembling hands and didn’t look back, walking quickly to
her room, where Charles found her half an hour later.
One look at the woman he loved wiping away her tears left all sense of propriety in
the dust. Pausing only to close the door, he crossed the room in a couple of strides and
swept her into his arms, sitting on the daybed and settling her on his lap. “Peri? Who has
upset you? Tell me, ma cherie!”
She clutched him, and took a few deep breaths. “No. It’s foolish.”
“I know you. You aren’t foolish. Please, Peri!”
Her sigh sounded as if it came from the depths of her soul. “Charles, did you love
your first wife?”
That was the last thing he expected to hear. The strain of the preparations for the
wedding, stress at facing a new life, that he might have expected, but to talk about
Francine? That part of him was dead and buried, or so he’d hoped. Now she was back to
haunt him. He might have guessed she’d try to do that.
“Why do you want to know?” He tilted her chin up with a gentle hand. Her heavenly
eyes swam with tears. “What difference does it make?”
“Maybe it’s just tiredness,” she faltered.
He didn’t believe her for a minute. “No it’s not. You’re upset. Do you need to know
about my first wife?”
“I think so.”
He settled her more comfortably in his arms and found his handkerchief, setting
himself the task of drying her cheeks. “Then I’ll tell you. What have you heard about
her?”
“That she was beautiful, accomplished, e-elegant, fashionable. The favoured at court,
accepted everywhere. I’d just like to know, Charles.”
“Millicent.” The single word dropped between them like a stone. “She’s been talking
to you, hasn’t she?”
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Perdita nodded. He held her closer. “Millicent idolised Francine. She only ever saw
her in full court rig, in full sail, you might say. Yes, she was lovely, graceful,
accomplished. Also the most deeply selfish woman I ever met.”
Perdita gasped. Their eyes met, and he didn’t look away. He’d deal with Millicent
when this was over, in a way she’d never forget. “Millicent was very young, much too
young to understand. But so was I. When I went to Versailles I was finishing my Grand
Tour. I was barely twenty-one. Francine enchanted me, went out of her way to do so. It
flattered her to have a younger lover. I wasn’t the first. I wasn’t the last, either.” He
stroked her back, knowing the softness of her skin under the stiff-boned stays and silky
material of her gown. She gave a little sigh and moved closer, melting his heart. “I fell
completely for her and we married. But I was a toy, one of the many who courted
Francine. She soon tired of me. The French court isn’t the glamorous thing it seems,
Perdita. It’s filthy, riddled with disease of the worst kind and vain. Pointless. The king
keeps his aristocrats around him. They never go to their own estates, never attend to
business. They have no Parliament, no real power. Parasites. That’s the way the king and
his ministers like it. By the time I realised that I’d been married to Francine for two years
and she’d already rid herself of one child.”
He swallowed, mildly surprised that the old pain should still hurt so much.
“Is that why you were so insistent that we marry if I was pregnant?”
“No.” He kissed her forehead. “Not entirely. I wanted you and that provided a good
excuse, a reason to hold on to you. But I wouldn’t have allowed you to do that. It’s
dangerous, for one thing. You know, that’s how she died. Getting rid of another baby.
That one wasn’t mine.”
“Oh, Charles!” She held on tight. “How that must have hurt!”
A harsh smile twisted his mouth. “What, that she died, or she died aborting a baby? I
would have welcomed that child, mine or not. But our marriage was over by then, had
been for a year or more. I was already planning to bring Aimée to England. To see her
inheritance, I said. But I didn’t plan to return.”
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She gave no clue how she reacted to that choice snippet of information. He hated
telling her. He’d been such a fool with Francine, so determined never to allow anyone to
trap him again into that kind of alliance, but the moment he’d seen Perdita she enchanted
him. Her exquisite fairy form, then her courage and her wit, all had served to bind him in
the silken web of marriage again. This time he knew he wouldn’t regret it.
“My love, you are true where she was not, honest where she couldn’t tell a lie from
the truth, pure where she was black as the worst imp of hell.”
“Pure?”
He knew what she was thinking. She’d allowed him to make love to her before their
marriage, and he hadn’t been the first. He almost laughed aloud at the contrast between
Francine and Perdita. “Pure. You only had two men, and those for the best of reasons. It
wasn’t your fault one turned out to be unworthy of you.” He gave a short laugh. “Maybe
both of us are.”
She laughed, but it was a poor effort. “No, you’re a good man.”
He kissed her for that, but kept it gentle. “I try to be. I won’t hurt you, Perdita, I
promise.”
This time her laugh was fuller. “You will, if we have a proper marriage. My
stepfather adores my mother, but they have the occasional disagreement. Is that what
happened in your case?”
“No. She married me on a whim, flattered that she could enchant someone so young.
After six months or so, she simply lost interest. For a year afterwards, she came back to
me from time to time, and like a fool, I welcomed her. She was very good at apologies.”
He smiled wryly. “I might have been young and stupidly in love, but I wasn’t a complete
idiot. But I was idiot enough to think appearances counted. As if she cared about that!
After a year at court I realised infidelity was normal. It was unusual if you didn’t have at
least three lovers going at one time.” He sighed. “It was partly my fault.”
“How could it be your fault?”
“She expected me to know. Assumed we British lived the same existence the French
did.” He hated the look of pity on her face. “Don’t, Peri. It’s over. Gone.”
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“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that. As if you feel sorry for me.”
She lifted her hand and caressed his cheek. “Aren’t people allowed to do that?”
“I don’t like it.” He hadn’t meant that to come out quite so sharply. Perdita was no
fool, she saw right through it.
“You don’t like people feeling sorry for you.” She saw too much.
Abruptly he stood, lifting her with him and took her to the bed, lying her down on
the cool sheets. Before she could resume where she’d left off, he lay down with her and
kissed her, pressing her body close to his. This time there was nothing gentle about his
kiss. He opened her mouth under his, entered her with his tongue. She responded, as she
always did, melting against him. So sweet, so right. If she ever hurt him the way Francine
had, that would just about kill him. Perhaps because he knew how different Perdita was,
how constant. He’d have to hurt her a lot before she’d take a step like that.
Her body was small, lithe, beautiful, more than he deserved, but he had her, and he
was keeping her. Whatever it took
He revelled in her taste, in the way she gave herself up to him. When he stroked
down her body in the unstructured loose gown, he felt her curves, soft and firm at the
same time, and she made a sound deep in her throat, like a purr.
He was lost, and he loved it.
But after a deep kiss, he withdrew and let his hand rest at her waist. He looked down
at her, smiling. “I have no intention of letting my past affect my future. I won’t stop
loving you and I’ll trust you forever. If I distrusted all women because of one, I wouldn’t
be much of a man, would I?” He smiled and touched her nose with the tip of his
forefinger. “You’re Peri, your own sweet self. And now you must rest.”
“Will you stay?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know my way around this house as well as I know my
own. And I want our wedding night to be special. How can it be that when we’ve spent
every night together before it?”
“Every night’s special with you.”
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Her words warmed him in a place he hadn’t known existed before he met her. “They
will be. Every night.”
“Will you come to me every night?”
“If you want me.”
“And stay until morning?”
”You won’t mind if I do?” He knew what he wanted, but was he right to ask it of
her? Would she prefer to be alone at night? Francine had certainly done so. Once they’d
made love, she expected him to leave. “You’ll tire of that soon enough.”
“No I won’t. Orlando and Violetta don’t sleep apart. They have separate apartments
for times like this, when she needs to rest, or when she’s ill but normally they sleep
together.”
“Even when she was—” He stopped, fascinated by the thought.
“Even when she was as big around her middle as from top to bottom. Nearly,”
Perdita added as an afterthought. “She was a pudding. Orlando loved it.”
He would love it, too. “It sounds wonderful. I want to do the same.”
When he’d told her he wanted to sleep with her every night, he’d temporarily
forgotten the matter of pregnancy. When Francine had been pregnant, she’d hidden it as
far as possible, and never, ever allowed him to touch her. He’d wanted to, wanted to feel
his child in her belly, share the growth with her, but she hadn’t let him, claimed he’d
done his part now it was her turn to do hers. But she hadn’t enjoyed the whole experience
of pregnancy and childbirth and never allowed it to happen again. He rather thought he’d
love Perdita as a pudding, but he was content to let nature take its course. The thought of
her big with his child fascinated and aroused him. The thought of holding her every night,
being able to share the growth of her body enchanted him.
“Yes, I’ll stay with you if you want me.” Even if that meant the maid saw them
together when she came in to light the fire and the news spread. Married couples who
slept together were often laughed at by society for being provincial and unnecessarily
devoted, but he didn’t care who knew. Let them laugh. He knew who was the fortunate
one.
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“I’ll tell my maid to leave the fire built up, then all we need to do is put tinder to it.
She won’t come until I ring for her.” It was uncanny. How did she know he was
uncertain?
She smiled. “I’m learning to read your expressions.” She cupped his cheek and he
turned his head to kiss her palm and tickle her with his tongue. She giggled. He loved
that. But he hated that she could read him so plainly. He hated people to know what he
was thinking, and he knew he revealed it too much. People of his station were supposed
to be cool and above common emotions. His aunt had told him often, and she was right,
that was the way most people behaved.
Somehow, he didn’t mind Perdita learning how to read him. She was so open with
her own feelings, when they were in private. But, he realised with a slight shock, her
public behaviour was entirely proper. Just as it should be. And she rarely wore more than
a light dusting of rice powder, for propriety’s sake.
When he kissed her again she sighed in a most gratifying way and nestled her body
close. Any more of this and he wouldn’t keep his good resolutions. He drew back
reluctantly, but with determination. “No, Peri. We’ll wait, my love.”
She sighed and pouted, which made him kiss her deliciously pursed lips again. But
afterwards he swung his legs over the side of the bed and got to his feet. “You stay here
and rest for a while. I’ll see you at dinner.” He looked at her, adorably tousled, and
gorgeously arrayed, but still the woman he’d fallen in love with in Liverpool, or maybe
just before it. The feeling had grown over the time he’d known her so now she was a part
of him, so indelibly deep that he would only be half a man without her.
And now he had something to do.
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Chapter Twenty-Two
Watching Millicent across the expanse of mahogany that constituted Blyth’s study
desk, Charles became aware of her total lack of nerve. Either that or she had a stronger
discipline over her features and body than he had, until he’d learned better.
He didn’t really know her. He’d been away for much of her growing up and only saw
her on brief visits, either when he visited his estate for necessary business or she came
over to Paris to attend the court. That was all.
“Aunt Maria is arriving this morning. She is delighted with the news.”
He raised a brow. “Is she indeed? She took her time.”
Millicent pouted. “Charles, that is not at all kind of you. Aunt Maria was not well,
brought low by influenza and she has dragged herself out of her sickbed to come to the
wedding.”
“Convenient. It saved her blaming herself for your disappearance.” He ignored her
splutter. “Aunt Maria was your guardian in default of another. Only recently has it been
brought to bear what an appalling decision that was.” But he was as much to blame. Too
taken up with his French wife, too obsessed with life at Versailles, too busy escaping a
home life gone sour after his parents’ early death. “She will no longer be responsible for
you, although her chaperonage will be welcomed, when Perdita is not at hand to provide
it.”
He’d shaken her. She glowered at him now. “She’s not worthy of you.”
“Perdita? Our aunt and her mother think it an excellent match. So do I. I couldn’t
imagine a better one.”
“Her brother was involved in some shady business deals, or so I heard.”
“Who from? Berrington?” Millicent shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Good. “You
still believe his lies after what he did?”
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“No.” His sister put up her chin defiantly. “Just what I’ve seen for myself. You
aren’t the first man in her bed, we both know that.”
“I have no intention of discussing my future wife with you,” he said coldly, unable to
completely hide his icy fury. “I am appalled by your reprehensible behaviour. You will
apologise to Perdita and you will do it with a whole heart.”
“But—”
“I don’t intend to discuss it. That is an order, Millicent.”
“Or what will you do?”
He curled his lip. “Nothing too severe. Merely send you into the country until you
have learned your manners. You will not see anyone, not even Aunt Maria. I will find
another lady to keep up the proprieties. Aunt Maria isn’t our only aunt.”
There was one other. He saw the very moment the realisation hit Millicent. “Lady
Cheveleys?”
They didn’t even call her “aunt”. Lady Cheveleys was in her mid-forties, a stickler
for correct manners and behaviour. No martinet was more vigilant, or more insistent on
the right way and the wrong way of conducting oneself. She rarely ventured into society
these days, instead remaining queen of her own corner of Lancashire, ruling the local
families with an iron hand, through her husband, who cared for little except hunting.
Millicent hated to hunt.
“No, Charles, you can’t!”
He sighed. “My decision isn’t entirely a punishment. You need to learn many things,
Millicent. How to behave, how to consider other people. Lady Cheveleys does a lot of
work for the indigent poor. Her people consider her a great benefactor. It will do you
good to think of others before yourself. And you have to learn correct behaviour. It’s
essential now, as it wasn’t before your lapse. If a whisper of your adventure gets out, it
will go hard on you. You must know that.”
Millicent’s voice rose to a level of shrillness Charles found unpleasant. “What of you
and Lady Perdita? What if tales of that get out?”
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She meant to threaten him with that. She would learn. “It would go harder on you
than on Perdita. I’m marrying her, after all, putting right any impropriety I might have
subjected her to.”
Her expression softened into the one that affected him the most, the gentle, pleading
sister, the one he’d ignored for years, the one he felt guilty about. “Charles, please think.
You can’t want to marry her. She’s the one who committed the most improprieties. She
travelled alone, Charles, and went into Liverpool on her own. Who can blame her maid
and footman for abandoning her? Or did they? Was she just saying that to compromise
you? Charles, you know I love you. Think about it. Just think. She trapped you nicely,
discovered where you were and came straight for you.”
He thought about the way he’d found Perdita, in a crumpled heap in the street. Since
she’d just left the ship’s offices and he was headed for them, it wasn’t surprising they’d
met. Thank God. Or she might have been killed. “It was I who discovered her servants
had run, not Perdita. I could have sent her to the hotel, broken my disguise and ensured
her safety but she insisted we keep up the pretence. Because of you, Millicent. You and
Aimée.” He broke off and took a few deep breaths. He needed to remain calm. “You are a
fool, Millicent, if you think to change my mind now. You will stay for the wedding, and
afterwards you will go to Lady Cheveleys. I wrote to her and told her of my decision half
an hour since. It won’t be the first time she’s asked me to send you to her. I ignored her
requests up to now, thinking Aunt Maria was a more suitable guardian for you. When you
were a child, it was the right choice. You needed someone to understand you and help
you through the difficult time after our parents’ deaths. You will see Aunt Maria when
she arrives, but you will not attempt to persuade her to try to change my mind. She will
not change it. You will go to Lady Cheveleys and you will learn to make the best of your
situation. Our aunt has your best interests at heart. She will not break you; only show you
the value of self-discipline and hard work.”
Millicent sprang to her feet. “What do you know of hard work? You’ve always been
rich, Charles, always indulged! How can you speak to me of that?”
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He stared at her until she sat down again. “Do you think an estate as large as mine
runs itself? When our father was alive, he insisted I learn for myself how the land was
worked, so I should better understand how to manage it. I ploughed, reaped, milked, hoed
and even helped to build a wall once.” He could point out the very bricks he’d laid when
they’d built the ha-ha around the Home Park. “I learned how to enter figures in an
account book, how to balance them. I learned the politics of that time and I have never
allowed myself to fall behind in that. I learned how to invest money, what constituted a
solid investment and why a portfolio had to be a balance of risk and steadiness. You think
I was indulged?” He laughed. “You weren’t watching closely enough. But unlike you,
Millicent, I learned and I was glad to learn. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people
depend directly on my management for their living. The very constitution of this country
depends on people like me taking an interest and thinking of more than their own
concerns. Why do you think I ran away to live in France?” He spread his hands in a
deliberately Gallic gesture. “But my duties followed me there and eventually proved my
salvation. I needed that outlet, needed to feel useful.” He stopped. She didn’t need to
know about that part of his life. “You never learned.”
“What should I learn? How to be pretty and dance well?” Scorn edged her voice, and
her lips thinned.
“Yes, that would help. And how to do household accounts, how to keep inventories,
how to be a support and a partner to any husband you might or might not attract. You are
not a support now, Millicent. You are a burden.” She flinched, but it was no more than
the truth. “You could be a valuable wife. The most successful marriages are partnerships,
you know that? They build on their relationship, and work together.”
“Is that why you’re marrying Lady Perdita? For a partner?” The sneering tone was
back, with narrowed eyes.
He got to his feet, his chair legs scraping against the wooden floor. “She can do all
those things. Her brother told me she was never a burden, always a partner in their
difficult years. But no, that’s not why I’m marrying her. I fell in love with her, Millicent.
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Something very rare and special and nobody, not you, not Berrington, nobody will
separate us.”
He left the room to the sound of heart-wrenching sobs, but he didn’t go back. Merely
closed the door quietly and went to find her maid. She’d need to start packing.
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Chapter Twenty-Three
“Aimée wanted to spend some time with you today.” Charles shook out his napkin as
if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell and delicately placed it in his lap
Aimée’s animosity was becoming more obsessive, more disturbing if Perdita wanted
to admit it, especially now their aunt and uncle had arrived and taken Millicent under her
wing. Lady Cheveleys was an entirely different kind of person to their Aunt Maria,
soberly but correctly attired, nothing frivolous about her. Perdita could feel almost sorry
for the girl, but nothing she saw about her ladyship made her feel Millicent would be ill
treated. Just kept busy, so she’d have too much to do to worry about getting into scrapes.
And since Charles made it quite clear he wanted to devote his time to her, Perdita felt
content.
Well, almost content. She wanted Charles in her bed, but he’d been steadfast in his
refusal. He’d give her all the kisses and caresses she wanted, but he wouldn’t make love
to her. Maybe he wanted his heir free and clear of any scandal, but she knew in her heart
that wouldn’t wash, because he’d also made clear that their wedding night would be
something to celebrate. So it wouldn’t matter if their child was conceived the week
before or the week after their wedding-day, society would still talk.
It was probably just as well, as the house was filling up with wedding-guests. After
the ceremony, Charles intended to take Perdita home, to his house, and leave Orlando to
cope with the guests here. Perdita very much feared Aimée would be accompanying
them, not only in the coach on the way home, but on their honeymoon. Since the child
had suffered such a fright, she could say nothing, but Aimée’s mulish, and downright bad
behaviour was getting worse.
So the news that Aimée wanted to spend some time with her, while depressing, was
also a good sign that the girl was coming out of her sulks and beginning to accept the
inevitable. Every night she’d pleaded with her papa that he not marry Perdita, but take
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her home so everything could be the same again. She knew because he’d told her, when
he’d taken leave of her every night before she went to bed.
The day was less scorching, blessed fluffy white clouds gathering to cover the sun,
and Violetta planned an outside diversion, a picnic and several harmless games for the
guests and the several children who attended to wish her and her baby well, and to
witness the marriage of the season. That was what the gossip-rags reported, anyway,
though Perdita knew full well there would be several more marriages of the season before
the end of the year.
When she passed through the hall after breakfast, guests were gathering for the
anticipated treat, all dressed in their finest light silks and muslins. It made for an
enchanting picture, and Perdita promised to join them later, after she’d seen Aimée and
changed her clothes. She would bring the child down herself, and Charles promised to
look in on them after half an hour.
She found Aimée already dressed in a stunning cream silk gown, her face lightly
painted, something she found grotesque in one so young but she didn’t want to spoil this
newfound cordiality. The child smiled at her graciously. “I thought we could look at the
Long Gallery where the family portraits are,” she said. “Then you can tell me all about
your relatives and what they did.”
And you can tell me about yours, she thought. Charles had a few distinguished
ancestors, ones he’d never bothered to talk about with her, but she was sure Aimée was
about to correct this.
Aimée proved her right. By the time they’d reached the gallery Aimée had told her
about her great-uncle the general, her other uncle, the Chancellor of the Exchequer and
various other stars of the family. When they reached the Long Gallery she turned to
Perdita with a sunny smile and said, “Now tell me about yours.”
Perdita was too wise to compete. Instead, she concentrated on the slow but steady
members of the family, the ones that kept out of trouble but didn’t make any outstanding
contribution to human understanding. There wasn’t much point showing her the mistress
of Charles II or the earl who won democratic rights for the people from the monarch.
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“My nurse brings me here every day,” Aimée remarked, in the middle of Perdita’s
account of her grandmother who lived a long and exemplary life.
“Do you like it?”
“Yes.” Aimée smirked. “It’s quiet, and I can run here. It’s been too hot to run
outside, but it’s good here.”
“I’m glad.” Perdita smiled at her. This child had no siblings, nobody to confide in
except her servants and her father. Understanding began to dawn. Her mother probably
ignored her. Considering what Charles had told her about his married life, her mother
hadn’t cared if she were alive or dead, so affection was limited. She would clutch at
whatever she could get in those circumstances. Anyone would. “If you want to run now, I
won’t tell anyone.”
Aimée gave her a look of pure scorn. “In this gown? I dressed for you, so we could
behave appropriately.”
Perdita wondered what “appropriately” meant, but she didn’t say it aloud. Accepting
Aimée’s rebuke, she decided to ensure the child had clothes in her wardrobe suitable for
running and exercising. Taking Charles meant taking Aimée too, and the sooner she and
the child reached an understanding, the more tranquil their future life would be.
They strolled up the Long Gallery slowly, trailed at a distance by Aimée’s current
nursemaid and Perdita recited some of the stories about her Blyth ancestors. What
surprised her was Aimée’s intelligence when she asked very pertinent questions about
some of the ancestors, and was able to put them in their historical context. For a five-
year-old, Perdita was impressed, and she said so.
“Papa tells me stories about history and I enjoy them.” That was the friendliest
comment she’d ever had from Aimée and it gave her an idea.
“Would you appreciate a governess? Someone who could tell you stories like that all
the time?”
Aimée’s face turned sullen. “No. I like Papa to do it.”
“It wouldn’t mean he’d stop.”
“It would if he marries you.”
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Perdita sighed. This was obviously going to take some time. She wouldn’t pursue the
matter now, but hopefully she’d made some progress. “I won’t cut you out, Aimée.”
“You couldn’t.” The cold, withdrawn tone of voice showed Perdita many things:
how lonely Aimée must be, how afraid she was that she’d lose her beloved father, and
how much she needed her life organised properly.
But this constant challenging irked her. Suddenly she wanted to be somewhere else,
anywhere else. On her own. The preparations for her wedding had escalated from a
quick, relatively small ceremony to something else. The Wedding of the Season, the
linking of two ancient houses, a new political alliance, when all she’d wanted was to
marry the man she loved.
Aware Aimée had left her side, Perdita turned around to see her fiddling with
something on the wall, at the side of one of the windows. It took her a moment to realise
it was one of the cleats set at the side that held a cord wound around it. A cord that
operated the pulley that raised and lowered the chandelier to clean it and light the candles
at night.
The chandelier that was directly over her head.
“No!” Shocked by the intensity of sound and the timbre of it, Perdita halted, then
rushed forward to stop the child before she could do any harm.
The crash and tinkle behind her told her she was too late.
“Aimée!”
Now she knew why the startled cry had sounded different. Someone else had cried
out at the same time. But she didn’t care. As the sound of thundering feet came closer,
she took the child by both arms and shook her. “Aimée, don’t you know what you’re
doing? You could have—”
Aimée burst into tears. Before Perdita could pull her into her arms, the child was
seized from behind and dragged into her father’s arms. “Perdita, how could you!”
She got to her feet, nearly knocking the nursemaid over. The girl was standing
behind her, obviously not expecting her to recoil quite so quickly. “Aimée needed to be
stopped. She was undoing the cord—”
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“No, Papa, it slipped, I saw it and—”
“She’s lying.” Perdita confronted the maid, who was standing snivelling next to her
by now. “Tell him.”
“I—I’m sorry, ma’am, my lady, but I can’t. I didn’t see properly.”
“You did.” The maid was standing a little further up the gallery, next to one of the
paintings. She would have had a perfect view of the incident.
But Perdita realised the maid wouldn’t talk herself out of a job, and if she took her
side instead of Aimée’s, she would do so when Aimée refused to have her in the nursery.
And she didn’t doubt that Aimée would.
It was too much. Careless of who else was listening, and the crash of the chandelier
falling to the floor must have brought people running, she took a step back, away from
the father and daughter. Charles’s face was as black as thunder, his glittering eyes fixed
on her. He was wearing a heavier maquillage than usual, which made it easier for her to
face what she had to face.
“Charles, if I marry you, I will be this child’s mother and you will have to trust my
judgment about her.”
“No. She is my child, and I will not let anyone stand between us. Not even you.”
Charles stroked Aimée’s hair. “Hush, hush, my sweet.”
“She has been trying to come between us since you told her we were to marry. She is
afraid of losing you, but she is a child. She needs more discipline in her life, and she
needs someone to supervise that.”
“Would you whip her?”
Perdita swallowed. “If necessary.” She couldn’t imagine when it would become
necessary, even after this incident. But she wouldn’t tell Charles that. If he trusted her
enough to let her treat the child as her own, she wouldn’t let him down. She would do her
best to give Aimée a good and stable childhood, and try to turn her into a worthwhile
human being.
“Then I cannot allow it.”
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“Then I will not marry you.” She turned around to leave, straight into Orlando’s
arms. She hadn’t even realised he was in the house, thought he’d gone with the others on
the picnic.
His arms closed firmly but gently around her. “You shall not, if you don’t wish it,”
he said softly, then raised his voice to address Charles. “You are welcome to attend the
ball celebrating my wife’s churching and the end of her confinement. I regret it will now
not be a celebration of my sister’s marriage, but I will support her and her decision.”
“Aimée is all I have left,” Charles said. “In trying to prevent a disaster did she
deserve such harsh treatment? I cannot accept a woman who would shake a child as she
did, and who would whip her to make her subservient to her will.”
“That’s not what I—” She stopped and turned deeper into Orlando’s arms. “I’m
sorry about your chandelier, Orlando.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just happy you weren’t hurt. That would have killed me.”
He turned her and headed for the end of the gallery. “You shall spend the rest of the day
in your room while I deal with business.” He addressed Charles one last time. “I will see
you in my study in an hour.”
“Don’t hurt him, Orlando.” Perdita, now in her room, dry-eyed, addressed her
brother.
“I have no intention of doing so.”
They were interrupted by the sudden ingress of Lady Taversall who entered the room
without preamble of any kind and headed straight for the bed. She took Perdita in her
arms and gave her a firm hug before sitting back. “One of the servants brought me word.
Don’t worry, no one else knows and Violetta is keeping the guests happy outdoors. What
happened?”
“Aimée tried to kill me,” Perdita said. That was the only explanation. “The girl
waited until I was under a chandelier before fumbling with the cord. I saw her and tried to
stop her. I shouldn’t have shaken her, I know that but I was shocked, and angry. The
child has baited me since she knew I was to marry Charles.” Her voice broke on the last
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word. “I can’t believe he believed her over me. But he did, Mama. And I can’t live with
that kind of distrust. Aimée rules her father, and I will not turn my marriage into a
battleground with a small child. She can have him.”
Her mother put her hand over Perdita’s where it lay on the bed. “Give him time to
come to his senses, Perdita.”
“I have. It’s over, Mama.”
“I thought you loved him.”
The corner of her mouth turned up in a wry smile. “I do. But he doesn’t love me. Or
at least, he doesn’t love me enough. His eyes, Mama! He looked at me with such hatred
for giving his daughter a shake! When she tried to kill me. He went to her, not to me. I
tried, Mama. But he won’t give the child a proper upbringing, and he even planned to
take her on honeymoon with us! I went along with his plans, meekly agreed, but today I
saw his obsession truly. He’ll never stop putting her first, and I will end up downtrodden
by a child. However much I love him, I can’t do that, Mama. I can’t.”
“No, you can’t.” She’d never heard her mother sound so sad, and she hated that
she’d brought this to her.
“Mama, will there be scandal.”
Her mother gave a harsh laugh. “No more than usual. We averted it when Orlando
married the daughter of England’s most notorious courtesan, so this will be easy.”
“It is as well this was to be a double celebration,” Orlando said. He got to his feet.
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
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Chapter Twenty-Four
Perdita knew why Orlando wanted her to remain in her room. That way she’d be
spared any gossip when the other guests realised what had happened. And they would, if
not today, then when she reappeared tomorrow and ignored Charles.
He’d probably leave. In a way she hoped he’d go before she had to re-emerge from
her room. It was cowardice, she knew, but she’d had enough.
Staying in her room was torture enough, wondering what developments were
occurring outside, if Charles had left yet, if Orlando had managed to contain the situation.
At ten, she rang for her maid to get her ready for bed and at half-past, she slid
between the sheets and picked up a book. Half an hour later, she hadn’t turned the page.
She’d asked for the curtains around the bed to be drawn. Although she rarely asked
for that in the summertime, the scorching weather was taking a cooler turn, much to her
relief, and outside rain pattered on the windows. And it gave her a chance to put on the
face she needed, the smiling, society face. In perfect privacy.
So when the outer door opened she assumed it was her maid, coming in to see if
there was anything she needed. When the curtains moved aside, she looked up from her
book, ready to reprimand the girl for not asking first, but the words died on her lips when
she saw Charles.
He pushed the curtain aside a little and she saw he was the Charles she knew from
Liverpool—simply dressed in a shirt and breeches, short hair tousled, no paint, powder or
any artifice. He faced her as he was, a man, and he took her breath away.
She loved him so much. But she would not bend on this because it would condemn
her to a life of second in line. She refused to do that. Even if it cost her the man she
loved, and she suspected the only man she would love in that way.
“Perdita, may I speak to you?”
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She liked that, as well, but she drew the covers up over her chest, and sat up in bed.
“I suppose we should.”
“First, I’m sorry. Unreservedly, completely sorry. You were right.”
“In what way?”
“As soon as you left I realised I’d done the wrong thing. I saw the chandelier, and the
damage it could have done to you. I won’t forgive Aimée for that. However young she is,
she should have been fully aware of the consequences of such an action.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Thank you, Charles.” The tightness in her chest eased off a
little. A very little.
“I’m sending her away.”
Now fear clutched her. “What do you mean, away? She’s only a child, Charles; she
doesn’t deserve punishment like that.”
He frowned. “Like what?”
“To send her away somewhere she doesn’t know anyone, where people might treat
her harshly. She’s only five years old.” A thought struck her. “Do you do this every time
someone displeases you? Send them away?”
“No.” A ghost of a smile flickered across his sensual lips, gone as soon as it came so
she almost doubted what she saw. “And I’m sending her to her grandparents in France.
She’ll be spoiled and indulged. They never saw enough of her while she was alive. I’ve
written to her grandmother, who will dispatch an escort for her, or come on her own. I
realise it will set her back a little, but it will only be for a month or two.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want her to turn into Millicent.” He swallowed. “After the dance
Millicent took us on, her lack of thought for anyone except herself, her disregard for
anyone’s safety, her wanton lack of any kind of responsibility, I couldn’t ignore it any
longer. If I continue to treat Aimée as I have been, she will turn into Millicent eventually.
Spoiled, selfish and unconcerned. She doesn’t understand what she did.” He ran his
fingers through his hair in a gesture entirely uncharacteristic for him. “I have to care for
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her in the proper way, teach her to be a responsible person. Millicent isn’t even happy,
she’ll never be happy, she’ll always want more. I can’t do that to my daughter.”
“I’m glad you’ve realised that, at least.” Now she had rejected him, she could say
exactly what she wanted. “When out of your presence, Aimée is a spoiled, spiteful child.
She has no manners and no consideration. Because you have spoiled her, she feels she
can behave in inappropriate ways, be in places she has no right to be.”
He passed his hand over his face. “Because I’ve allowed my feelings for her to come
in the way of her development as a person.” He sighed. “Francine didn’t want her, but
fulfilled her promise of giving me an heir. When the heir turned out to be a girl, she
ignored her. I, on the other hand, fell instantly in love with her and from then on I elected
to be with Aimée rather than Francine.”
He moved forward a pace but she didn’t stop him or withdraw. He seemed truly
penitent. “What changed your mind?”
“When I realised I could have lost you, and my daughter could have been the cause. I
love you, Perdita. Whether you take me back or not, that won’t change, but I won’t
embarrass you. If you still want to send me away, I’ll go with Aimée to France.”
She hardened her heart. She needed more than that. “So you chose me over your
daughter?”
His brow creased in a frown. “If you think that, there’s no more to be said. Do you.
Peri?”
“Convince me.”
“I love my daughter as well, and she still needs me. But she’s getting older and it’s
past time I regulated her upbringing. For her own sake, she needs it.”
That sounded better, more like Perdita’s own opinion. Indulging the child as Charles
was doing was no good for anyone. But Charles had never wanted to discuss it before,
clinging to Aimée like a lifeline.
“While she’s away I’ll make arrangements to hire a governess and give her
jurisdiction over her upbringing. She needs to be an exceptional woman, because Aimée
will try to appeal to me over her, and she might try some of her tricks.” He nodded at
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Perdita’s surprise, which she didn’t try to hide. “Oh yes, once I began to think about it, I
remembered all manner of things. That day at Lady Corrington’s, that was no accident,
was it?”
“No.”
“Aimée found the muddiest part of the pond and ensured you fell in it, while she
remained almost scatheless.”
She smiled. She could afford to smile, because that particular trick had backfired on
Aimée.
Charles’s lips moved again and this time his smile, while it held an element of
grimness, also held an edge of amusement. Perhaps he remembered that kiss, too. She
patted the bed. “Sit down, Charles. You’re making my neck ache.”
He sat, and the grimness began to fade. But he couldn’t relax yet. What she was
hearing was what she needed, but she needed more now. “Do you trust me to act as
Aimée’s mother? To do what is best for her and not to interfere with any action I choose
to take?”
“Yes. I would hope we’d take any decision jointly, but if you take a decision, I won’t
undermine it.”
“We’re still talking the conditional here.”
“Of course.”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet.” But she could feel her body softening for him.
Having him so close her body knew what it wanted, even if she didn’t. “Charles, what do
you think happened today?”
“I think she meant to hurt you.” He swallowed, and his humour vanished again,
replaced by gravity. “She must have loosened that cord earlier. I examined the others, and
they were firmly tied. Your brother’s servants know their business and I have no reason
to doubt the cord wasn’t properly tied off. I suspect she did it early in the day, while most
of us were still abed. Then she took you up there and had you stand under the chandelier
while she undid the last part of the cord.”
“Did she say so?”
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“No, but when I pointed out that she could have killed you, she burst into tears and I
think she was truly afraid. She meant only to hurt you. But that was bad enough.” He met
her eyes directly and the expression in his made her hold her breath. “She could have
killed you, Perdita. If she’d done that I would never have forgiven her.”
So suddenly she hadn’t time to respond, he surged forward and took her in his arms,
held her tightly to his chest. “Perdita, I love you, and the thought of the world without
you is unbearable to me. Please forgive me, my love, my darling. If you want to send me
away, do it now, because I can’t take any more of this.”
When she looked up, meaning to ask him to release her enough that she could
breathe, he took her mouth in a passionate kiss.
This was unlike any kiss he’d given her before. Desperation and relief dictated his
actions as much as passion, and he plunged his tongue into her mouth before she was
ready, held her too tightly, too urgently. But she still responded. Back in his arms, where
she thought she’d never be again, she gave him all the desperation she was feeling, a
desperation born of the belief that she’d never hold him again, never feel him again.
His lips left her mouth, only to touch her cheek and chin, dotting small kisses almost
at random until he nudged aside her robe to reach the small pulse throbbing at the base of
her neck. Then she knew. She’d take him back on any terms, if only he’d love her. Her
demands down to one, she no longer cared who won, what he did. She’d manage if she
could still call him her own.
When he lifted his head to stare at her his eyes glistened and as she watched a tear
spilled out of the corner of his eye to track down one cheek. “I nearly lost you,” he
whispered, and he lifted his hand to cup her cheek and softly trace down her face. “How
could I have lived without you?”
She blinked. They couldn’t both cry, it would be stupid.
So how she ended up lying in his arms bawling like a baby she would never know.
Relief and love combined until he shifted her and dabbed at her face with a corner of the
sheet. “Don’t cry, sweetheart, please.”
She sniffed. “I’m so idiotic.”
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“No.” He kissed her nose and her damp cheek. “Never that. The most sensible
woman I’ve ever met. And the most adorable. Ask me for anything. Anything, Perdita
and you shall have it.”
She knew exactly what she wanted and although she had to pause from time to time,
she said what she needed to. “To be your partner, Charles. For you to consult me in every
decision that affects us. To trust me. Without trust, love dies.”
He finished drying her face and held a handkerchief to her nose. “Blow.”
Half-laughing, she did as he bid her.
“And in answer to your request, yes. Without condition, without measure. I’m not
used to it, though, Peri. You’ll have to remind me from time to time.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll remind you.”
He laughed and kissed her again, a lingering, loving kiss this time. “Good. I’d be a
fool to ignore someone as perspicacious and as intelligent as you, ma cherie, even if I
didn’t love you to distraction. Which I do.”
“Charles, don’t go. Don’t leave me alone tonight.”
“I have no intention of going anywhere.”
He fumbled at her waist for a moment and her gown fell open. He drew back, and
stared at her. Just stared.
Without any cover, she still felt vulnerable, but if she couldn’t trust him to treat her
kindly, she couldn’t trust anyone. He sat up and undid the ties fastening his shirt at the
neck, then his cuff buttons. She swallowed when the V at his neck widened, revealing
more of his chest. She saw more of it when he dragged the shirt off over his head.
He was magnificent. The scars from his long-ago accident only enhanced his
musculature, gleaming silvery white over the swelling muscles. He seemed unconcerned,
watching her as she lay there, draped in the silk that now hid nothing. His gaze slipped
from her head to her feet, lingering at her breasts and crotch, then back up to her face. “I
love every part of you, perfect or not. It all makes you what you are, Perdita.”
“I hid away for a year, unable to face anyone. Don’t you think that was cowardly of
me?”
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He reached out and slid his hand across her waist. “It makes you human. That’s all.
And what you did to bring your brother and Violetta together makes you brave. You
found what you’d lost, and gave it to the people who’d helped you the most. I wish I’d
been there to give that doctor his marching orders, and to be by your side when you re-
entered society!” He watched his hand, intent on tracing a circle around her navel. “I hid
away, too.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“No, you wouldn’t. It happened a long time ago. Perdita, I’m shy.”
She laughed and he smiled with her, sliding his hand up her body to cup a breast.
“I’ll have to make you do that when you’re naked more often. I love the way your breasts
tremble when you laugh.”
“You, shy? I’ve seen all eyes go to you when you enter a ballroom and you’re not in
the least abashed.”
He smiled. “Ah, but that’s because I’m behind my mask. The maquillage, my sweet.
The clothes. I love fine things, I was brought up to it but you might have noticed that I
push the boundaries of taste a little. If I wear something relatively plain, I have it in pink.
If I wear an embroidered waistcoat, it’s the finest embroidery and it might be flowers or
wild animals. I have coats in pink and lavender, ivory and rose.” He lifted his gaze to her
face once more. “People see the clothes and the mask, not the man trembling behind
them. Once I found that secret, I could face anyone, do anything.”
He paused. “I’ve done it for so long I never realised until recently that I didn’t need
it any more.”
She felt almost regretful. Charles was handsome, a dominant male, but his
appearance set him apart. She’d admired his bravery in wearing such extravagant clothes,
never dreaming they were his disguise, not his enhancements. But he was right. Behind
them, he could be any man. Except he wasn’t. “I quite like them. I like to see people’s
responses. You can tell from their responses what kind of people they are.”
“Yes.” He stroked his thumb over her nipple and she shivered. Slowly, her peak was
rising, her need for him growing. “I noticed that early on. The more conservative tend to
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condemn outright, and make assumptions that aren’t correct. Most people do that, at least
at first. Some close their minds then, but most, I’m happy to say, do not and take the
trouble to try to discover the man behind the mask. Of course the fact that this man is one
of the wealthiest in the country must drive their opinions. You can tell that, too. The ones
who approach despite their initial feelings. They are repulsed, but they will deal with me
anyway, because they need something from me. Yes, the mask helps me sometimes.”
“Will you abandon it?”
“If you want me to.” He replied immediately, without thinking his response through
and that told her as much as anything else he’d told her tonight.
“No I don’t. I enjoy it, now you’ve let me in, now I can see the man under the fine
clothes and the maquillage. But I don’t like the maquillage as much. I can’t kiss you
properly. That stuff doesn’t taste very good.”
“Do you want to see more of the man under the clothes?”
“Yes please.”
He stood up and crossed the room to the door. She heard the key grate in the lock.
Then he came back to her. She’d never seen quite such an open expression on his face
before. Loving, hiding nothing. She knew he’d never hide anything from her again.
When he returned, he flung the curtains back from the side of the bed, and came
down to join her, pushing her thighs apart with his knees as he settled on top of her. His
erect shaft touched the sensitive area between her legs and she arched up to him, needing
him, wanting him.
The movement was enough to bring him inside her. Barely, but enough. He groaned
and pushed gently, then, when he found her ready for him, more firmly. He didn’t stop
until he was seated completely inside her, his balls nestled against her, his member
embraced by her wet heat. The hair on his chest stroked her nipples, bringing them to full
attention, at their most sensitive. Her gasp came on the heels of his groan, full-throated
and needy.
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Lynne Connolly
“God, Peri, I thought I’d never feel this again!” He withdrew nearly all the way, and
returned, pushing slowly into her, making her feel every inch deep inside her. “You feel
like no other woman, ma cherie, the only one who makes me feel so complete.”
She lifted her knees to hug his body between them, his hipbones hard against her
inner thighs. “I love you!” was all she managed before his driving thrusts brought her up
and ever up, to gasping oblivion.
He didn’t stop. She thought he would never stop, and she didn’t care. All night, if he
wanted, she’d give him all she had.
Twisting against him, rubbing her nipples against his chest to give them the ease she
longed for, she cried out as another orgasm came fast and violent, but he didn’t stop even
then. Relentlessly, he drove her, pushed her further up and up, until she couldn’t tell
where one climax ended and another began, caring even less. He gasped endearments,
growling them against her mouth, her throat, as he pressed hot, deep kisses on her. When
he thrust his tongue into her mouth, he drove deeply into her, until she was almost
howling with her release.
After an untold length of time, he cried out and she felt the deep throb when he
released into her, giving her everything he had.
When she opened her eyes, Perdita wouldn’t have been surprised to see the dawn
peeping over the horizon, but it was still dark, the candles guttering in their sockets on the
candelabrum still lit on her dressing table. Enough light to look up into the face of the
man she loved, who lay silently cradling her in his arms, watching her with eyes soft with
adoration. “Je t’aime, ma cherie. Je t’aimerai pour toujours.”
“Moi aussi.”
He kissed her tenderly, and she responded in full measure. “I don’t want to spend
another night without you in my arms.”
She snuggled in, content. “Good. Because wherever you are, I’ll come to you.”
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Met By Chance
No more would a child keep them apart, or the machinations of a jealous sister
because they’d come to an understanding deeper than that. She knew it as well as he did.
Pure trust and a true partnership, as well as a love both knew could never be broken.
It was all she’d ever wanted and more than she’d hoped for.
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Lynne Connolly
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Epilogue
“You are perfect, Perdita.” Lord Taversall offered his arm to her and she laid hers on
it. Although she was wearing her finest gown, she thought someone else might outdo her
in finery.
She wasn’t wrong. Waiting for her at the altar of the flower-bedecked parish church
stood a creature from a fairy tale, Prince Charming. Resplendent in lavender and pink,
perfumed, wearing a wig that appeared to be made from a cloud, so white and pure it
was, stood the groom. He smiled at her as she walked slowly towards him, her gown
swishing loudly in the silence of that hallowed place.
But he wore very little on his face. He wanted everyone to see how much he loved
her, and his face didn’t hide it now. It blazed with love, his eyes warm with appreciation
and wanting. Everyone in that church, from the highest-born aristocrat to the humblest
parishioner could see why exactly he was marrying Lady Perdita Garland.
Not because she was the sister of a wealthy aristocrat, not because she was related to
some of the most powerful families in the land.
But because he loved her. And she loved him.
About the Author
To learn more about Lynne Connolly, please visit
join in the fun with other readers as well as Lynne!
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lynneconnolly
Look for these titles
Now Available
Triple Countess series:
Last Chance, My Love
A Chance to Dream
Met by Chance
Coming Soon
Secrets Trilogy:
Isabel’s Secret (Book One)
Can a man who lives in the shadows and a woman who lives in the light find a place to
belong together?
The Tribute
© 2007 Beth Williamson
Brett Malloy has always been considered a loner, a man apart from the Malloy clan.
Quiet, reserved and intense, Brett hides from the world on his new ranch with only an ex-
gunslinger and a runaway boy for company. When circumstances put him flat on his
back, his childhood crush, Doctor Alexandra Brighton arrives to nurse him back to
health.
Alex has always loved Brett despite the fact that a more difficult man couldn’t be
found on the face of the earth. A woman who firmly believes everyone should live life to
the fullest, Alex takes Brett’s quiet surliness as a mission. She’s going to teach him what
it means to live, and how to find love and passion in the most unexpected places.
When rancher King Dawson claims Alex as his own, Brett has to choose between the
darkness of his shadows and the light of Alex’s love.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Tribute:
When Kincaid had brought Brett in, and she’d taken off his shirt, she didn’t pay
attention to anything else. It was too important to focus on the wound and saving his life.
Being alone with him now was quite different, especially after the kiss.
“I want to recheck it before you leave, just to be sure you didn’t re-injure yourself.”
She walked into the examining room with Brett on her heels.
He sat on the examining table and Alex had difficulty swallowing when he removed
his shirt. The expanse of flesh and muscle was a banquet of beauty. She drank it in like a
starving woman. The boy’s body she had known evolved into an amazingly sexy man.
Perfectly formed shoulders, lightly furred chest with whorls of brown hair tapering down
toward his belly. She felt embarrassed to note that his bellybutton pressed inward instead
of outward. Her finger itched to touch it.
The white bandage on his right shoulder stood out in contrast to the beautiful skin
that covered him. She concentrated on untying the bandage without hurting him,
twitching when her hands brushed against the hair on his chest.
What was wrong with her? She’d had hundreds and hundreds of patients, probably a
thousand in the last ten years. Here she was acting like a complete idiot because it was
Brett Malloy on her table. She didn’t ever remember having him as a patient before,
several of the other Malloys for certain, but never him.
Alex wasn’t sure if he noticed her perusal and even if he did, he was too polite to
mention it, though he probably should have. A doctor shouldn’t be lusting after her
patient. She recognized it for what it was—lust. Her past transgressions, or possibly
mistakes, catching up with her.
She finally fumbled around enough to get the bandage undone.
“How does it look?” Brett asked.
Alex examined the wound carefully, surprised and pleased at how good it looked. “It
looks wonderful, with no sign of infection. You’re an amazing healer, Brett.”
Her fingertips lightly skimmed his skin. He sucked in a breath. Alex’s skin tingled
from the contact.
“How long do I keep the bandage on?”
Alex started, a bit chagrined that she’d been daydreaming as she touched his
shoulder. “Keep the bandage on a few more days to keep the dirt out. I’ll give you more.”
“You don’t have to do that. We’ve still got plenty at the ranch.”
“I don’t want you to use up your supply. You need to have some on hand for
anything else that happens.” Her mouth twitched, wanting to tease him just a bit. “After
all, the roof might attack you again.”
“I plan to look up next time.”
As Alex wrapped the bandage around his shoulder, she couldn’t help but ask, “How
is it that you came to be under the wood as it fell off the roof? Mr. Kincaid said he
warned you but apparently you didn’t hear him.”
“Ah.” Brett cleared his throat and fidgeted a bit with the shirt in his left hand. “I
don’t remember. It all happened so fast.”
Alex knew a fib when she heard one, but didn’t call him on it. He must have had his
reasons. As she tied off the bandage, she asked, “Do you need some help putting your
shirt on?”
Normally saying that wouldn’t have been any kind of issue, but when one brown
eyebrow arched at the question, Alex’s body heated.
“I think I can handle it.”
“Are you sure?” Alex almost didn’t recognize her voice, low, a little raspy, and
dammit, needy.
Suddenly the urge to feel him, to feel alive, overwhelmed her. At that moment, all
she wanted to do was feel something good, no matter if it was right or wrong. Alex
decided it was time to start living for herself and her needs. She followed the urge to
simply feel. Later she’d talk to herself about falling for the same man twice in a lifetime
and whether or not it was a good idea. With a deep breath, she threw caution to the wind
and jumped in with both feet.
Alex took his face in her hands and lowered her mouth to his. Soft kisses, her lips
gently moved against his. Once. Twice. He felt rigid against her, unyielding.
Alex had other ideas. Her tongue swiped his lips, tickling until he opened his mouth.
The hot, delicious feeling of kissing him deeply swept through her, raising goose bumps
and nipples harder than diamonds.
“Alex,” he gasped out between kisses. “What are you doing?”
“Shut up, Malloy.” She kissed her way across his jaw to his neck. A moan rose up in
her throat as she sucked the salty skin, the arousal building inside her like steam. It
needed an escape, a release. It had been so long since she’d had one.
“Make love to me, Brett.” It wasn’t a question. Before he could protest, she
unbuttoned her shirt and took it off, followed quickly by her skirt and chemise. As she
stood in her stockings, his eyes drank her in, feasting on her flesh. Alex felt her cheeks
redden, but she didn’t dare cover herself. This is what she wanted, come hell or high
water.
She took his left hand and placed it on her breast. The feeling of the callused palm
against her nipple made her gasp. Soon he cupped both her breasts, kneading and
tweaking while she continued to kiss him breathless.
“Here?” The one word he was able to get out sounded like a cross between a bark
and a groan.
He lowered his mouth to her breast and Alex forgot the question. It didn’t matter that
the front door wasn’t locked. The examining room door was closed and to hell with
anyone who interrupted them. She was beyond caring. All she wanted was right there in
her arms.
He captured her body. Now he must capture her heart.
Capture Her Heart
© 2008 Cynthia Breeding
Abducted at sword-point and bound to a bed aboard a fast-sailing frigate headed for
Constantinople, Lady Kaitlin Coltan knows she must be mad to be attracted to the
handsome Scottish captain. But perhaps seducing him will change his mind about selling
her into sexual slavery. If only she knew how.
The last thing Adair MacDouglas needs is overpowering lust for his beautiful
captive, but the Sultan will only pay well if Adair delivers a virgin. He pushes his guilt
aside, reminding himself that her sale will avenge the rape of his young sister by Kaitlin’s
brother, and sets about teaching the stubborn lass the art of being a good concubine.
But when Kaitlin’s life is at risk, Adair realizes his feelings for her run deep as the
sea. He captured her body—now he must capture her heart.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Capture Her Heart
Damn him. Kaitlin glared at Adair. The man was infuriating, standing there with a
lopsided grin on his face. Well, she’d show him. She took a deep breath and suddenly
darted around him toward the ship’s rail. It was now or never.
In the split second it took him to realize what she’d done, Kaitlin had one leg over
the rail. An iron arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her back on deck. Adair spun
her around and backed her against the cabin wall, pressing his body against hers.
“What the hell were ye doing?”
She didn’t want to admit—not even think—about how good he felt. “What did it
look like? I told you I’d be no man’s concubine, and you can’t make me into one.”
A preternatural glow made his eyes pure gold. “I think I can, lass.” He laced his
fingers with hers and brought her arms over her head, pinning them to the wood. With
one deft motion, his boots spread her legs just enough that she had no traction to kick
him, and then he lowered his mouth to hers.
His tongue exploring her mouth sent ripples of warmth coursing through her veins.
The crush of her breasts on his muscled chest made her nipples ache and she sought the
friction of brushing against him. His instant reaction was to grind against her hips,
causing his granite-like thing to house itself between her thighs. Ahhh! Kaitlin felt a
throbbing sensation begin to pulsate through her belly. She had not known she had such a
sensitive spot down there, but he obviously did, for he was teasing it now, bucking
against her. Her body tingled, tiny pricks of flame igniting her skin everywhere. The area
between her legs blazed with desire and need. Her thoughts centered only on the
wonderful sensation of his jutting thing banging at her, begging to be released from the
confines of his clothing. And then the contraction came, one great convulsive spasm that
caused her to shudder uncontrollably. She gasped for air.
When her mind could function again, she slowly opened her eyes to find Adair
watching her, an inscrutable look on his face. He still had her hands imprisoned.
Embarrassed, she looked down. “I didn’t know I could feel…”
Adair shifted her wrists to one of his hands and tilted her chin up with a finger. “Ah,
lass. That was only the first lesson.” He stepped back, but did not release his hold on her.
“It’s obvious I can’t let ye roam the deck unless ye’re tied to me, so I’ll have to keep ye
confined to the cabin.”
Kaitlin stared at him. “You can’t keep me caged like an animal.”
“For certes I can. It’s my ship.”
I’ll never have a chance to escape! “I’ll go stark raving mad!”
He leaned closer. “Ye’ll have your lessons to look forward to. Every night. By the
time Ali Stafa sees ye, ye’ll be a most compliant concubine.”
She had no intention of being compliant at anything, but she shivered in anticipation
of what Adair might do. Having seen a stallion mount a mare once before her brothers
had pulled her away, she knew where that hard thing should go. She wondered what it
would feel like actually inside her and was surprised when a heated rush filled her again
and started her nub pulsing. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing what
her traitorous body was doing. “What if I refuse?”
For a moment he looked surprised and then he grinned. “Then the next lesson will be
teaching ye to obey me.”
“Obey you?” Kaitlin sputtered angrily. Even her father treaded lightly when ordering
her around, and her brothers gave her a wide berth if her temper was up. “Never.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
A love too strong to disguise, a disgrace too deep to ignore.
A Chance to Dream
© 2007 Lynne Connolly
The second book in the Triple Countess series.
Orlando Garland, Lord Blyth, has spent a lifetime restoring the family fortunes but
now it’s time for him to think of himself for a change. When he hires a dowdy companion
for his invalid sister, it doesn’t take him long to suspect “Charlotte” is more than she
appears. Yet the lively young woman proves to be good for his sister. And Orlando can’t
ignore the seductive beauty behind the disguise.
Violetta Palagio’s mask has never chafed before—until now. She longs for the
freedom to love the handsome Orlando. Yet to reveal herself would be disastrous for
them both. She is La Perla Perfetta, the daughter of London’s most successful courtesan.
For most of her life, her mother has cleverly kept Violetta’s identity a secret. Will she
risk all that, now the threat that kept them in disguise for so long is finally gone?
For the first time in her life, Violetta is in love. Can she find the courage to come out
from behind the mask?
And if she does, will Orlando chance everything he has worked so hard to rebuild—
for a courtesan’s daughter?
Enjoy the following excerpt for A Chance to Dream:
Violetta curled her arm around Orlando’s neck and pulled him down to kiss her. It
was long, leisurely and deepened very slowly. When Violetta opened her mouth under
the pressure of his lips he touched her with his tongue, and then slid slowly inside,
caressing her lips, then meeting her tongue in a caress she returned eagerly. He leaned
across her and slid his hand inside her gown, around her ribs just below her breast. He
spread his fingers and touched her breast and she moved into his hand, revelling in the
sensation of being cherished and wanted. He accepted her invitation and moved his hand
up to cover and caress her. When he rolled the nipple gently between finger and thumb
she moaned into his mouth, feeling the tingle from her breast right down to her thighs.
He broke the kiss and gazed at her. “We shouldn’t be doing this. I decided I wouldn’t
take advantage of you while you were under my roof. What happened?”
She let him see her reaction to his caresses, her smile softening, arching into his
hand. “We happened. I wanted you, too.”
“I need to know that. Otherwise I’d be the most selfish beast in nature.”
She gazed at him. There were no barriers between them, not at that moment. He had
lost the haughty, aristocratic disdain he habitually wore when facing the world, and
looked at her with warmth and desire. She could almost feel the heat emanating from
him, entering her. She could bask in it for a long time. She moved, flexed her body like a
cat and he smiled, enjoying her pleasure. “Perhaps I should minister to you all night.
Your personal attendant, here only for your pleasure.”
“Don’t tempt me. I might take you up on your offer.”
His steady caresses continued, not increasing in intensity. “Your pleasure is my
pleasure. I please myself while I’m pleasing you.”
Abruptly she said, “Is it always like this?”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “No.” His smile faded, to be replaced by a more
intense look. He stared into her eyes and his hand stilled. “We’ve only made love once,
and already I need to see you, be with you. It was like that before but not so
concentrated.”
“What do we do?”
“I’d like to see where it leads.” He resumed his stroking. “I don’t want to pressure
you. I don’t want to make you feel trapped. You don’t like that, do you?”
“No.” How did he know that? She had thought her disguise as Charlotte Lambert so
good, yet he was able to tell a great deal about her. Did everyone see these things? She
sincerely hoped not.
The smile returned. “Sufficient unto the day,” he quoted, and bent to kiss her.
All the warmth he had been slowly building inside her erupted and she sucked cold
air through her nose. If his mouth hadn’t been covering hers she would have gasped. It
felt as though everything surged up inside her, increasing her need, making all her senses
focus on him. Only him.
He lifted his mouth to murmur, “Relax. Let me love you,” then he dropped small
kisses on her nose, her cheeks, and trailed light caresses down to her throat. His hand
continued its magic, and she felt him loosen another hook, and another. He lifted his head
and leaned back on his elbow. They watched together as he opened each hook in a steady,
relentless passage down to her lower calf, where the gown flowed free. He moved to
straddle her body, her legs between his, and opened the robe.
She was laid open for his pleasure, and he took it. He gazed his fill until she flushed,
her body suffused with the warmth she still felt inside. “You’re truly lovely. Soft,
smooth, a joy.” He ran his hand down from her breasts to her hips.
Leaning back on his heels he divested himself of the light robe he wore over his shirt
and breeches, letting it fall behind him, then his shirt, pulling it over his head. The ribbon
came away and he shook his hair free, smiling at her in the intimate way she was coming
to know well. She smiled back and curved her body first one way, then the other. His
response was a low groan, and he came back over her again, taking her mouth, pushing
his hands into her hair on either side of her head.
She wouldn’t let him go. Throwing her arms around him, gripping him tightly she
returned his kiss, exploring him, feeling him meld her closer. Passion rose inside her to a
deep longing. If he left now she would follow him until he gave her what she needed.
He wasn’t about to leave. His breeches hid nothing from her, nor did he want to hide,
pushing his erection into her stomach in a motion as old as time. She gave him the
response, arched her back to push.
He leaned back just long enough to tear the buttons undone at the waistband and kick
the last garment down his legs. He came back down on top of her, pushing her legs open
and settling between them. He lifted himself up and gasped. “You take me back to
boyhood. I seem to have lost all the finesse I took such pains to learn.”
“It doesn’t matter. I want you. Please.”
“One condition.”
She couldn’t believe it. “Anything!”
“Call me by my name.”
Immediately, she cried out. “Orlando!”
Immediately, he responded. He touched her between her legs. “Oh God, Violetta!”
He slid down and pushed between her legs, using one hand to guide himself to her. Then
he looked up. Meeting her dazed stare with his burning gaze he thrust. They were one.
They cried out, breath meeting and mingling. She arched her back, pushing her
shoulders into the mattress beneath her. He kept his thrusts steady, not increasing,
building the warmth inside her until she cried out. “Please, please!”
“Please what?” His voice held a teasing note.
“I don’t know. I don’t know!” She arched her back, tilting her hips to take all of him,
feel everything inside her. She felt him push his hand between them and down, and then
he touched a place more exquisitely sensitive than she could ever remember it being
before. Now she twisted to one side, sure she wouldn’t be able to take any more and the
movement pushed his hand deeper, harder against her. “Oh, oh, oh!” was all she
managed, and she felt him thrust so deeply he touched the centre of passion, something
deep inside tore her apart.
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