Lady Vixen (The Reckless Brides, Book 3)

by Shirlee Busbee

  Letitia hesitated, but then Simon kissed her gently on the cheek and said in a pleading tone, “Please, love, tell me.”

  What could she do except tell him after that?

  When she finished Simon said nothing for several seconds, and Letitia’s heart ached for him. He set her from him with a heavy sigh. “I feared all along that it was something like that,” he admitted. “I suspected it, but I didn’t want to believe it. Why? Why, Letty, is Robert this way? I have always tried to treat him fairly, and God knows I have always loved him and protected him. To treat a boy that way! His one nephew! To sell him into certain death!” Agonized, he burst out, “I tell you, Letty, I don’t think I can bear the sight of him anymore. This time I cannot forgive him.”

  “Simon, Simon. Do not distress yourself. Please try to sleep. Remember it happened so long ago.”

  Absently he rearranged the tangled bed clothes, his movements slow and painful, and Letitia was filled with pity for him. Now it was she who cradled him, her arms enfolding him, her lips pressing tenderly against his temple. “Simon, don’t let it eat at you. Robert is what he is and you cannot blame yourself. Know in your heart that you have done the best you could and put the rest aside. He is a man full grown, and he was a man full grown when he and Annabelle planned their charade and when he sold Christopher to that press-gang. It is not your fault; you taught him what you could, and if he chose not to learn, there is nothing you can do about it. Put it from you,” she pleaded.

  “I shall try, Letty. I shall try. But I doubt I can be as forgiving as you—or as Christopher appears to be.”

  Letitia stirred uneasily. “I don’t think Christopher has forgiven him, Simon. Sometimes I think he is merely waiting like a tiger does for his prey to make a mistake.”

  In London, Christopher did resemble a tiger—a caged tiger. Waiting was not easy for him, and the thought that Jennings-Smythe could bring about disaster anytime, did nothing to improve his temper.

  Anticipating his departure, Christopher had let it be known that he was leaving London and traveling to Brighton. He left his plans vague, alluding to travels on the continent.

  He had paid his debts, informed his landlord of his date of departure, and completed his packing. The memorandum itself was in a thin leather pouch strapped around Christopher’s waist. He was ready.

  The days of September had lagged. He had not come to any decision concerning what he would tell his grandfather, and it knifed him with painful frequency. He was not ashamed of what he had done, but would Simon, if he knew, understand? More than ever Christopher was aware of his invidious position, but his worst moment came on the morning of the twenty-eighth of September.

  He had risen late, after having spent the previous evening drinking with Captain Buckley and Lieutenant Kettlescope as a farewell to London. His head was aching, and his mouth tasted like the floor of a stable. He had just finished his fourth cup of strong coffee when Higgins entered and thrust the London Times under his nose. “They’ve burned Washington!”

  Incredulously, Christopher read the bold black headlines, Washington Burned! His face white, he devoured the article.

  Captain Harry Smith had just returned from America in a phenomenally short amount of time—twenty-one days—and with him came the dispatches reporting the capture and burning of Washington. During the week of August 19, the British had fought back the American lines and driven them from the capital city. British troops had poured into the city, looting and sacking at will. Major General Robert Ross had personally ordered the destruction of the White House, the Capitol, the Treasury, the War Office, and the National Archives.

  With black fury in his heart, Christopher continued to read of the havoc wreaked on the American capital by the invading British troops, and any remorse he might have felt died.

  Sick with impotent fury, Christopher slammed the paper on the table, snarling, “By God, they’ll regret this infamous act!” With barely leashed violence he promised softly, “Let them come to New Orleans—we’ll teach them that no one attacks our capital with impunity.”

  Christopher and Higgins left London early the next morning and arrived at Brighton after lunch. Simon was delighted to see his grandson and made no attempt to hide it.

  “By heavens, boy, but it is good to see you!” he thundered as Christopher entered the library where Simon had been sitting, leafing through the latest racing magazines.

  “The same to you, sir. I can see that the married life must be most agreeable. You look like a happy, contented man and Lady Saxon is positively blooming.”

  Simon looked pleased. “She is, isn’t she?” he replied with simple pleasure. “We did enjoy ourselves in Beddington’s Corner. We’ve decided to go back there the first of October. Gina can show Nicole the sights here in town if the chit don’t want to bury herself in the country this early in the year.”

  Christopher smiled noncommittally and wondered if he should take advantage of this private moment to tell his grandfather that tomorrow night he would be leaving. He sought vainly for the words, but they stuck in his throat. He could not, within moments of arriving, spring it on the older man that he was leaving. He pushed the distasteful task from him and instead sat back and savored those precious minutes alone with his grandfather.

  Simon, too, had been struggling for words—but of a far different nature. He longed to tell Christopher that he knew the full story of what had happened all those years before, but he couldn’t make himself bring the subject up. Christopher had obviously not wanted him to know, and Simon was quite sure his grandson would not be pleased that the sordid story had come to him through the women of the family. Simon frowned, realizing how the past could very well be an insurmountable obstacle between Nicole and Christopher. His heart hardened further against his son. Not only had Robert nearly been the death of Christopher, but it appeared that his wickedness could destroy any hope that Christopher and Nicole had of happiness. Ah, damn! Why did it have to be that way?

  “Something wrong, sir?” Christopher asked, his eyes watchful on Simon’s face.

  “Eh?” Simon grunted, pulling himself together. “No, I was just lost in a daydream.” Smiling sheepishly, he added, “I find myself going off at the oddest times. Must be that my age is catching up with me. Next year, I shall probably be senile!”

  “Hardly.” Christopher snorted, not entirely satisfied with Simon’s excuse, but he let it be. If it were something important, he would discover it soon enough.

  Nicole hadn’t known Christopher had arrived until she joined the guests Regina had invited for tea. Seeing him, her heart lurch, but she forced herself to smile politely when he approached.

  “Well, brat,” Christopher taunted, his gaze taking in the charming gown she wore and the brilliance of her eyes. “You’re looking very beautiful. Brighton must agree with you.”

  With a dazzling smile she said sweetly, “Brighton? Oh, I put it down to being away from you.”

  His eyes darkened and for one second, she thought he would retaliate. Instead he shrugged his powerful shoulders. “Still the vixen’s tongue, Nick,” he commented dryly. Without further conversation he sauntered away.

  Edward came strolling up and Nicole lost sight of Christopher as she tried to ignore her cousin.

  Edward Markham was desperate, and later pacing his room, he reviewed his staggering debts and came to the realization that he was totally without financial resources. As he pondered his situation again and again, only one thing became clear—he must marry an heiress. And the one he wished to marry had spurned his suit. “Damn, Nicole,” he hissed. He had been so sure before that incident at the pavilion that winning Nicole’s hand would be an easy trick, but now it was obvious that he had misjudged her.

  He cursed Nicole again, but he cursed more the folly that had led him to that ill-fated card game on the previous night. He had been convinced that luck was with him at last, and that he would be able to recoup enough money to keep the duns at bay. Instead when
he rose from the gaming table in the early hours of the morning, he was several thousand pounds in debt.

  It was impossible to think of reneging. He would be ruined if he did not pay that debt—within the week.

  It had occurred to him to murder Nicole, but as he assessed his situation he realized that it would be easier to marry her—to force her to marry him.

  Once his decision was made, he set about perfecting a hasty plan. The hiring of a coach and four would take the last of his ready money, but that he was willing to risk, considering the fortune at stake.

  How to get Nicole into the carriage? He could hardly kidnap her off the street in broad daylight. She wouldn’t meet him anywhere feasible, but what about meeting someone else? But whom? And why a secret meeting? He racked his brains, but as the hours passed he came to no solution. Nicole would not meet just anyone, and certainly even fewer people in clandestine circumstances. Yet he had to have her in some private place. He could think of dozens of places that would suit his purposes, but the prickly question remained—how to get Nicole there alone.

  Eventually he hit upon a haphazard scheme. Nicole, he knew, was in the habit of walking every afternoon in the park, usually with one of the maids from Lord Saxon’s establishment accompanying her. All he would have to do was meet Nicole as she started home, race up to her with the frantic message that Lord Saxon had suffered a stroke, and then before she had time to think, whisk her around to his waiting coach—without the attendant maid. By the time Nicole questioned his ability to have at his disposal a coach and four and realized that they were not traveling toward Kings Road, it would be too late. He was pleased with his strategy. The only flaw he could see was the uncertainty of Nicole being alone with the maid. He would have to leave it to chance—that and the unthinkable prospect that for some reason Nicole would not take her usual walk tomorrow afternoon in Brighton Park. But he knew she would. Fate could not continue to be so unkind to him.

  Chapter 12

  Christopher faced his last day in England with mingled excitement and dread. Most of all he dreaded having to tell Simon that he was leaving, and the thought of that farewell was unbearable. He had no idea how he could explain that sometime between the hours of dark and midnight he would be sailing back to America.

  Already, the older man was expounding on the delightful Christmas they would have this year at Beddington’s Corner. He had even made sly hints that perhaps the town house in London could be turned over to Christopher since he and Letitia preferred the quiet of Beddington’s Corner.

  Morosely Christopher wandered about the Brighton house. Once he laughed out loud at himself. To think that he, just like an erring schoolboy, dreaded the coming, and come it must, interview with his grandfather. England, he thought derisively, had changed him. He felt that he was over civilized—and less of a man. Why else this occasional conscience that pricked him and this dislike of leaving, this dismay at telling his grandfather good-bye? As for Nicole…

  Nicole was reading in the library, but as was common, anytime she was left alone her thoughts were on Christopher. With a sigh she closed her book. What was the use of thinking of him? Of torturing herself over someone she couldn’t change?

  Unable to be alone any longer, she strode toward the door. She had almost reached it when the door swung open, just missing her.

  “My God, Nicole, you might have given me some warning that you were in here. I could have hurt you when I opened the door,” Christopher snapped, halting his progress into the room.

  Her ready temper rising, Nicole shot back, “And how was I to know you were about to come barging in like a bull with a wasp in his ear?”

  Warily they regarded each other. Christopher gave her a crooked grin and laughed. “Pax, little vixen. Pull in your sharp teeth.”

  “You started it!” she retorted, achingly conscious of his masculine presence. His face looked leaner to her, harder, and there was an air about him that she couldn’t place—an aura of recklessness that caused her to wonder what he was doing in Brighton. She managed to ask calmly, “How long are you to stay with us?”

  Christopher hesitated before replying, “I’m afraid I won’t be staying here at all.” At her look of surprise, he said slowly, “Higgins and I will be staying at my cottage near Rottingdean tonight.” Flashing her a careless smile, he finished lightly, “As for tomorrow who knows where we’ll be.” It was as close as he could come to the truth.

  But Nicole knew him too well and premonition chilled her. Her eyes fixed intently on his, she demanded, “You’re leaving, aren’t you? You’re going back to Louisiana.”

  Christopher drew in his breath as if struck a deadly blow, but his face remained impassive. “Yes. Yes, we are, Nick.” The admission shocked him. He had not meant to tell Nicole at all, and certainly not before he had spoken with his grandfather. Yet, when she had guessed, he could not lie to her. I wonder if that’s an improvement, he thought cynically, being unable to lie is supposed to be a virtue.

  Nicole froze as a painful sense of loss spread throughout her body. He was leaving. No more Christopher to taunt her and drive her mad with passion and fury. She should be glad, she told herself. Pride stiffened her spine, and muttered, “How very nice for you.” The big topaz eyes blank behind black spiky lashes, a set smile on her mouth, Nicole continued on a cheerful note, “You must be delighted to be rid of me at last. I have never thanked you for the many things you have done for me, and I hope now that our ways are finally parting that you will allow me—”

  “Shut up, Nick!” Christopher snapped, a muscle jumping in his cheek.

  Nicole shook her head and the fiery curls danced on her shoulders as stubbornly she persisted, “No! You must let me! I must tell you—”

  Christopher stopped her in the only way he could; his hands roughly grasped her slender arms and pulled her tightly against him as his mouth captured hers. He kissed her a long time. A long, hungry, urgent assault that left her weak and trembling in his crushing embrace. Cradling her head against his shoulder, his mouth moved with aching tenderness across the soft curls beneath his chin, and he said thickly, “Don’t say another word. Words don’t mean much to you and me. We say things we don’t mean, and we let our tempers rule us too often. Someday maybe we’ll be able to talk like sensible human beings, but God forgive me, for where you are concerned, I am not rational.”

  Astonished, Nicole jerked her head up to stare up at him. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, and Christopher driven as much by the knowledge that tomorrow he would be putting an ocean between them as by her yielding body, couldn’t control the need to taste her mouth once again. Her lips parted sweetly, and at the unexpected surrender a muffled imprecation broke from him. He gathered her slim form nearer to him; his hands caressed her back and hips, making Nicole forcibly aware that he wanted her. But Christopher, remembering against his wishes where he was, gently pushed her away and said with a twisted smile, “You’re more potent than any wine, Nick. You make a man lose his head and do things he regrets.”

  Nicole misinterpreted what he was saying and stiffened, but Christopher gave her no chance to reply; instead he compelled her to sit down. After seating her in the center of an elegant sofa, he lounged on one of the arms, one long leg swinging restlessly. Shooting her a queer look, he muttered, “I haven’t always treated you as I should. I won’t apologize for what I have done, though.” Brazenly, he said, “Heaven help me, given the same set of circumstances, I’d probably do the same thing again! I wanted you then, I want you now, and I’ll admit that no woman has ever quite had me so entangled and confused as you have. Believe me, minx, I’ll be glad to see the last of you.”

  The words hit her like a slap in the face. She had always known that he would be happy to see the last of her, but she was stunned by his admission. She played with the silk of her gown to hide her trembling hands and kept her face averted from him, fearful she would betray how deeply his indifference hurt her.

  Christo
pher was watching her face intently, the expression in the gold eyes shadowed by the dark lashes. He was painfully aware that he was handling this badly, but he was powerless to change it. His usual ready address failed him with Nicole. He said the wrong things, did the wrong things, and even when it was the last thing in the world that he wanted, he always seemed to provoke an unholy argument. Trying for the light touch didn’t seem to be the answer either, judging from the rigid set of her features.

  Oblivious to Christopher’s intent stare, Nicole knew she should make some remark, some laughing rejoinder, but the words stuck in her throat. Pride came to her rescue, and with a fixed smile she said, “Well, I suppose confusing you, as you say I have, must be some sort of victory for me.”

  “Damnit, Nicole! There is no war between us!” Christopher growled, wanting something more than just a glib statement from her, yet uncertain precisely what it was he sought.

  Nicole, lost in her own bitter battle with her heart, did not hear the note of entreaty in Christopher’s voice. All she registered was the barely hidden anger on his face. With piercing resignation, she knew why there could never be anything but anger and recriminations between them—because of her mother. Nausea curled in her stomach when she thought of Christopher’s betrayal at her mother’s hands. Could she blame him for hating her? For hurting her?

  Resignedly she said, “Oh, have done with this pretense between us! I know what happened to you all those years ago and I know why you hate me so. You say there is no war between us, but you lie.” Her spirit came rushing back, and passionately she cried, “There will always be a war between us. My mother saw to that! I could try for a thousand years to make you forget it, I could let you trample me in the dust, but it would never soothe all the hate you’ve filled yourself with.”

  Christopher went still, the heavy black brows contracted into a frown above his narrowed eyes. “Exactly what are you talking about?”