Could a man’s love really change a woman so thoroughly?
Did a man always just expect a woman to change for him in marriage? Everything she’d ever heard about wedlock seemed to prove that yes, indeed, a man did expect a woman to change, to conform herself to his life completely.
Wasn’t that the same type of manipulation that Grandmother had used against her? Asking a woman to change herself so utterly, so basically?
Emily had been forced as a girl to suppress and hide her true self. But she was an artist.
Her art was all she lived for.
She needed to be working on her art, according to her vision, every productive hour of every day. It was vital to her.
She needed her art like she needed the air that she breathed.
She would never, ever allow anyone to take that away from her again. Or even to force her to suppress it or change her artistic expression in any way.
“You’re going to change someday, Emily,” John said, supreme confidence ringing in his voice. “You’re going to want a home and hearth of your own, and children. All women do, eventually.”
She blinked at him. “No, that will never happen to me. I have mission in life, a calling from the Creator.”
His lips twitched. “Wait and see which of us is proved correct.”
She wanted to take her reticule and knock him over the head for being so megrim-blue over her happy news. Not only was this a chance to use her art as a means to free those poor, suffering men in Algeria, but she would also, hopefully, eventually, make money with it.
She would be able to live independently, supported solely by her own talents.
Was it too much to ask that her only remaining friend be happy about her chance at success? But his attention had drifted.
“I wish his type would stay the hell out of here,” John muttered. “Damned Federalists.”
Emily sighed. She loathed his political tirades. It wasn’t the Federalists’ fault that John’s conservative father had cut him off.
“Is it all so important?”
“Important?” His eyes bugged. “Goddamned straight it’s important. Federalist harpies are bent on changing the very fabric of this Republic. English-loving bastards want to make us over into the same royalist tyranny we’ve already won against. Just look at him.”
She dared a glance at the bar, expecting to see Satan himself. All she saw was the back of a gentleman who was deeply engrossed in conversation with Mr. Porter.
He was the tallest man she could ever recall seeing. A well-tailored jacket of Federal blue clung to exceptionally broad shoulders and powerful-looking arms. Yet his body was not dense and heavy and barrel-chested, as with so many men with similar qualities. No, he was finely muscled and held himself with an elegant, upright posture.
In the yellow light from the lanterns hanging over his head, his queued hair glowed antique gold. John kept his dark hair cropped to his collar in support of radical liberalism and France’s revolution. But it wasn’t a universal gesture for all Democratic-Republicans. Most men of moderate political feeling still retained their queues.
“You’re sure he’s a Federalist?”
He nodded. “I recognize him from my father’s dinner parties. That’s Alexander Dalton.”
“And why should that mean anything to me?”
“The Alexander Dalton.”
She shrugged.
“Don’t you know anything?”
“I suppose not.”
He shook his head. “Your grandmother has a lot to answer for, keeping you so homebound and ignorant of the world.”
His words awoke in her an urge to run home right now, to the comfortable two-story house on Maple Street in Easton where they had once lived, and accept her grandmother’s warm, safe embrace. But those embraces had been like iron manacles, squeezing off her freedom. Guilt, sadness and, worst of all, relief churned together like an odd sort of nausea. It confused her too much. She couldn’t dwell on it. Not now.
She was on her own from here on out. Alone in the world. Forever.
She must be brave. She must be strong.
Wrinkling her forehead, she redirected the subject. “He doesn’t look like too much of a devil.”
“Oh, aye, all the ladies are taken with him. Why should I have expected you to have better sense?” He threw some coins onto the table, then rose. “But you really shouldn’t be here. Go on home.”
He took the dollar and thrust it at her, letting it fall onto her lap. Then he donned his tall, round hat with its tri-colored liberty cockade, and walked away.
She glanced down at his money in her lap, gathered it up and jumped to her feet. She hurried after him, determined to return his money. But he exited before she could reach him. As she watched the door close behind his tall form, she slumped and sighed. She’d catch John tomorrow and give the money back to him then.
She turned again to the bar. John’s Federalist devil had turned his head to the side, revealing his profile. She caught her breath.
He had a refined handsomeness. A proud, broad forehead, fine, high cheekbones, a straight nose, thin yet sensual lips and a strong jaw, an almost regal air… Her fingers itched for her charcoal so intensely that she tightened her hands into fists to dull the sensation.
The sight held her transfixed. She’d never seen a more beautiful person—at least not outside of a book.
She had to capture that likeness. Temptation to run home now and fetch her sketchpad beat through her. Breath catching excitement so strong, it made her stomach a bit sick. Would he be here when she returned? Oh heavens, one just did not see such a man but likely once or twice in a lifetime.
He turned sharply in her direction. His gaze, blue-gray and as fierce as storm clouds, locked with hers and stripped her mind clean of any notion of leaving or sketching him. Stripped her mind clear of anything but him.
Something solid bumped into her, jarring her out of her transfixed state. She half turned. A man loomed over her. He flared his nostrils and blew hot, stale, rum-scented breath over her. It burnt her nose and she gagged. He narrowed his green eyes and grabbed her arm.
“Lookin’ to pick my pockets, girlie?”
“G—goodness no!” She tried to push him away. He was lanky, but his body was like a stone wall of hard, muscled flesh.
“Oh yes, then, what’s this?” he asked in a slurring voice. He plucked the crumpled dollar from her hand.
“That’s mine—give it back!” she cried.
“I see you’ve already hit some sapskull tonight.” He tightened his grip on her upper arm and gave her a shake so hard her that teeth rattled. “Were we in another country, I could cut your nose off for what you’ve done, to warn other men, and no one would say a word.”
Again, she pulled against his hold, but it was futile. “Let. Me. Go.”
With one yank, he twisted her arm behind her. Pain spiked through her shoulder joint. She cried out and tears sprang to her eyes, distorting her vision. She blinked hard.
“Don’t bat those pretty eyes at me, girlie—I’ve no tolerance for cunning little cats.” His breath felt closer than ever. “You’ll not make a fool of me.”
“Let her go,” a masculine voice said with icy calm.
Chapter Two
Emily’s captor trembled against her and the odor of male sweat rose from him with nauseating intensity. As his hands slackened, she lurched forward. He instantly strengthened his hold and swung Emily with him as he turned. The room spun by her. As he stopped, she reeled and swiped at the tears with her free hand.
The Federalist devil stood there, tall and broad-shouldered. His expression was pleasant but his eyes were steely hard.
“Mind your own business, Dalton!” Her assailant tightened his grip on her, his nails digging sharply into the bare flesh of her arm beneath the gown’s little cap sleeves. She winced.
A sharp exhalation escaped Dalton’s lips, and the skin tightened across his cheekbones. He shot his arm out to grasp
the other man by his high, stiffly starched collar.
“I said, let her go.”
The man released Emily so suddenly that she went tumbling forward onto the nearest table. As her chest slammed into the flat, cloth-covered surface, the air was driven out of her with a whoosh. A moment later her chin hit, knocking her teeth together with a jarring effect.
Vertigo swept over her and her stomach lurched. For a moment, she sagged against the table, waiting for the sickening sensation to ebb. Then she stood slowly, using her tongue to make a careful inventory of her teeth. The metallic taste of blood greeted her search and she grimaced, wishing she could spit but not daring to under so many gazes. She cast a glance at the gentleman’s refined profile and she shook in the wake of fear, her muscles going weak from relief. Thank goodness he had come to her aid.
“Green, I’m not surprised you’re creating trouble like this,” Dalton said smoothly.
“I bend my knee to no one, Dalton, so either face me as an equal, or back off now,” Green said.
The whole room quieted to a hush. Emily flickered her gaze over the men holding their cards carelessly or their tankards halfway to their lips, many of them grinning from ear to ear.
“I’ve no objection to or hesitation about facing you—in fact your abuse of this young lady makes it imperative. Name the time and your weapons of choice.”
“Here and now. Bare knuckle, as those not blessed with your exalted situation settle their scores.”
“Excellent.” Dalton’s voice rang with firm confidence.
Astonished at this turn of events, Emily jerked her gaze back to his face. He appeared immensely pleased, his tall, powerful-looking body posed taut, his eyes gleaming like a predator’s.
She cast a glance at Green, taking in his flushed, sweat-beaded face, his angrily bulging eyes and the extended cords in his neck.
Oh, this was a fine way for her first night of employment to start. Porter was sure to tell her to leave. All her muscles tensed with anxiety. As if sensing her thoughts, the tavern-keeper caught her eye and winked.
All grins, he was practically beaming.
She breathed out a sigh and went a little limp. He wasn’t kicking her out into the street—not yet.
“Gentlemen, in here, please.” He motioned to a door that opened onto an empty backroom.
The crowd got to its feet, the sound of scraping chair legs, raised voices and clicking heels erupting loudly. Porter positioned himself at the door and busied himself taking bets while the flock poured into the backroom.
The tavern girls hurried through as gleefully as the male patrons. Emily walked hesitantly to the doorway and stood there.
Green was already in the center of the room, stripping off his plum-colored jacket and waistcoat.
Heavens, they really were going to fight. Her belly knotted up again. She placed one hand to it and hugged the doorframe with the other. She’d caused this, somehow.
A light touch brushed her arm. Emily jumped and turned to look straight into blue-gray eyes. Alex leaned forward, bringing his lean, golden-tanned face so close to hers that she could see the fine lines around his eyes and his lips.
As impossible as it seemed, this close he was even more handsome. Beyond gorgeous. A sun-god come to life in a Philadelphia disorderly house.
She should express her gratitude for his help. But she couldn’t seem to find her wits.
“Well, darling,” he said, just loudly enough for her to hear. “Are you all right?”
Once, Grandfather had given her a taste of cognac. Heavy and lush and spicy-dark upon her tongue, it had warmed her long after she had swallowed it. This man’s voice was like cognac for the ears. She stared at him, still helplessly bemused as she rubbed her arm.
He touched her forearm again, brushing his fingertips over the bare skin between her long, black evening gloves and the black lace on the claret-colored capped sleeves. The gentle caress sent sparks of sensation racing along her flesh and making her nipples bead.
How could such a simple touch elicit that kind of response? He stared back at her with sincere sympathy that spoke directly to her heart. He must be at least thirty-five, and wealthy judging by the refined elegance of his clothing. He emanated calm confidence and power. And to suddenly be the focus of all that charisma was making her tingle from head to toes.
He swept his fingertips up her arm again, startling her out of her thoughts and sending her to new heights of euphoria. The room seemed to be spinning already. If he didn’t stop touching her, she feared she might swoon. A ripple of fear quaked through her. This gentleman could prove to be far more dangerous than Green.
She glanced at his hand. Even his hands were beautiful—large, yet elegantly boned, with long fingers. An artist’s hands. She wondered if he did any sort of creative work with them.
“It hurts badly? I hope it’s not broken.” His tone was so tender that her knees seemed to melt. Goodness, he was such a true gentleman. Maybe his concern had provoked his interest in challenging Green. Maybe if he saw she was all right, he’d reconsider the fight.
“No, it’s not too bad now.” Frantically, she flexed her shoulder and arm through their range of motion to show him, but lingering soreness made her wince.
His jaw tightened and his eyes turned hard. A cold lump settled somewhere around her navel.
She flexed her shoulder again, keeping her face impassive this time. “See? It’s really fine. Please don’t do this. It’s not necessary.”
His golden brows rose. “Of course it is. If no one ever made men like Green answerable for their actions, what kind of place would this world be?”
She bit her lip. Men could be so blasted stubborn, and strident pleading from a woman was only likely to set them more firmly in their course of action. Or so she’d heard Grandmother vow so many times. Aside from her friendship with John, Emily had little experience with men, much less gentlemen.
“Don’t fret. It will soon be over.” He gave her a smile that was all shining blue-gray eyes and dazzling white teeth. It made her stomach bottom out and scattered her wits so far that she feared she might never find them again.
“You’d better hold on to this.” He pushed something at her.
It rustled slightly below her chin. She looked down. It was John’s crumpled dollar. She’d forgotten all about it. She took it from his hand with the slow clumsiness of a sleepwalker.
He winked at her, then turned to walk into the back room, his tall, long-legged body moving with animal grace.
Goodness, she hadn’t even managed to properly express her thanks for his timely rescue of her. He must think her wholly lacking in manners. But she’d been so enthralled by his beauty. Well, he must be used to that reaction from women. Did he find it amusing or annoying?
The sun-god was stripping off his elegantly styled frockcoat.
As Green watched, his fine-featured face set in an angry, determined scowl. Beneath it, his satin waistcoat clung to an obviously muscular chest and a hard, flat abdomen. Emily couldn’t help the way her eyes lingered as he slowly unfastened the buttons and shed his waistcoat. He seemed calm, as if he fought men bare-fisted in taverns every day.
Green appeared to be breathing heavily. His face, splotchy white and red, glistened with sweat. “Dalton, it’s going to give me pleasure to split that arrogant, nobbish skull of yours.”
“You’ve had this coming for a very long time, Green,” Dalton rejoined casually. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he offered Emily a last, reassuring wink.
Her knees went even weaker, though from her continued since of enthrallment with his physical beauty or from the apprehension of what was about to happen, she didn’t know. She had never even been out alone in town at night, much less in the midst of a tavern brawl. An odd tingling mix of fear and agitation swirled in the pit of her abdomen and her heart seemed to leap into her throat with each pounding beat.
Various catcalls issued forth and the smell of male sweat and excitement
thickened in the smoky air.
The blood roared deafeningly in Emily’s ears as the two men circling each other seemed to move far away from her, then suddenly jerk closer again and again, making her wonder if the scene was real or part of some nightmare. Dalton smilingly taunted the other man, deflecting Green’s blows as he struck out wildly at him. Then Dalton hit with determination, cracking Green’s jaw with brutal accuracy. The sound echoed, with spine-chilling effect.
“Bloody good punch, Dalton!”
As Green staggered back, Dalton’s face sharpened with fierce determination. He struck Green repeatedly in the midsection, taking advantage while Green remained off balance. Then Green staggered forward, shoving Dalton, drawing his fist back…
Nausea roiled through Emily. She closed her eyes and forced her fingers into her ears, trying to block out the sounds of flesh striking flesh.
The hush from the crowd suddenly erupted into talking and laughter. Dalton, her sun-god, stood above the fallen Green. However, with a red welt on his elegant high cheekbone and blood trickling from the side of his mouth, he looked something less than divine. He wiped his lip with the back of his hand, his eyes glittering savagely.
* * * *
Alex Dalton stood panting over Green. But his satisfaction quickly faded. In its place came a grudging pity for Green as he lay knocked out on the sand-covered floor, having surrendered far too easily. The girl hadn’t even touched him, much less had time to get her hand into the fool’s pockets. No man in his sane mind would have accused her. God, what must it be like to live with that kind of constant suspicion of others?
Green mumbled something.
“What’s that?” Alex asked, placing his boot lightly on Green’s heaving chest. “I can’t hear you. Doubt the young lady can, either.”
“Lady?” Green gasped the word, then turned his head to spit out a mouthful of blood. “I know a harlot when I see one.”
Alex leant down and took Green by his collar. “Shall we continue? I thought you had signaled your surrender to my terms?” he asked, still breathless. Then he tightened his grip and whispered low, “You know I’d like nothing more than to split your worthless skull. It’s long overdue. Don’t give me an excuse.”
Wild, Wicked and Wanton: A Hot Historical Romance Bundle Page 50
