by Nikki Poppen
The object of his unrest sat in the overstuffed chair by the open window, her feet tucked beneath her skirts and her attention claimed by the book which lay open in her lap. She looked utterly beautiful with the lamplight catching the dark hues of her hair and accenting the gentle curve of her jaw.
For a moment Giles could only stare. What would it be like to have such a woman waiting every night? He was a man of culture and breeding, unaccustomed to primal instinct, but the need to possess and protect surged through him at the sight of her. She turned the page of her book, unaware of his presence.
“Can you read?” Giles asked. He had not meant to speak the thought out loud.
She startled at the sound of his voice, snapping the book shut and glared. “Yes, I can read. Not all gypsies are illiterate. Does that surprise you?” She was hard and cold, much like she’d been on the lawn. The vision of gentle femininity evaporated.
Dismayed by the shattered vision, Giles matched her cold hauteur. “What surprises me is finding an uninvited woman in my rooms. I am tired and have a long day of entertaining ahead of me tomorrow.”
She rose to her feet in a fluid movement, her coldness melting, and a soft smile on her lips that restored Giles’s earlier image of gentle tranquility. She moved toward him, hips swaying as she closed the remaining distance between them. He was bewitched. It was much harder to resist the lovely siren that stood before him than the shrew-tongued gypsy from the lawns.
“We have not gotten off to a good start. I am sorry about the scene on the lawn. It was a shock seeing you again.” She said softly, sincerely.
She was close enough for Giles to smell the delicate scent of lavender that clung to her skin, to notice the pulse that beat at the base of her neck, exposed by the cut of her white blouse. He furrowed his brow. Her pulse seemed slightly elevated as if she were nervous or distressed. It was at odds with the soothing quality of her voice, her soft demeanor.
Unless it was all an act.
Giles found the strength to resist her calculated allure and scolded himself for nearly giving in. He was back on guard. “What do you want?”
He could see she was surprised by his tone. She’d thought she had him.
“I need to speak with you, privately, Giles. There is business between us that needs settling.”
“I paid the wagon driver. Our business is settled,” Giles said tersely.
She shook her head, the dark ringlets swaying at the motion. She slipped a hand into the billowy bodice of her blouse, and for a moment Giles thought he knew exactly what kind of “business” she referred to. Was she going to seduce him?
She brought out a slim leather folder, the kind used for legal documents. She handed it to him.
“What is this?” Giles asked, turning the folder over in his hands and redirecting his thoughts. A cold chill passed through him. He knew instinctively the folder held no good for him.
Irina squared her shoulders and lifted her chin to meet his gaze evenly. Her voice was quiet and firm. “It is my claim to Spelthorne as its legitimate heir.”
S he’d expected any other man to bluster and rage upon hearing her news. To his credit, Spelthorne did not. Years of genteel training were evident in his controlled response.
“These are very serious accusations.” The Earl of Spelthorne’s intense blue gaze never wavered. He crossed his arms in a formidable gesture Irina was getting all too used to recognizing. Arms, she noticed, that bulged at the seams of his expensively tailored evening coat.
Under his scrutiny, the enormity of her contentions threatened to swamp her as she gathered her reserves to unswervingly answer his stare, all the while quailing inside. He was right. Such claims would not be treated lightly by him or by peerage.
For the first time since she embarked on this course, she doubted her ability to see it through. What was she doing, challenging the well-connected and highly eligible Earl of Spelthorne? If she gave up now, there was still a chance she could meekly walk away and abandon her cause. No matter that the onus of truth was on her side, the earl was far beyond her reach. She did not doubt he could uphold his threats.
A man like him would indeed drag her through every court in the land. He’d have the peerage and years of presumption on his side. He could easily outlast her defense and pile of hardearned coins. But she had reason to believe it wouldn’t come to that. For that reason, she stayed.
She had known from the outset that a man such as Giles would fight to the death to keep what was his-or in this case-what he thought was his. She’d known since meeting him that he was a man dedicated to his responsibilities and a man of unimpeachable honor. But she also knew such traits were a double-edged sword. She was counting on that sword cutting both ways.
Neither would Giles renounce the abbey and his title without a protracted fight, nor would he turn her away without recompense if he could be persuaded to believe her claim. She might not get the abbey or the title of lady, but she’d get enough to ensure she didn’t have to spend her life traveling the countryside in a vardo, suffering lusty looks from men who thought she could be had simply because she was Rom.
Irina stopped her thoughts right there to steel herself. She would not be intimidated into a compromise because the man standing before her was beautifully made, dressed in fine clothes and possessed of a stare so penetrating it suggested he could divine all her thoughts and insecurities. She squelched the notion. It was too dangerous. If she started thinking all she’d get from him was a financial settlement akin to nothing more than hush money, then indeed that was all she could expect.
She’d waited her whole life for more than that. Money could be spent. She wanted a title. She wanted to be a lady and it was her due by birth. She did nothing wrong in laying claim to her birthright. It was unfortunate that her birthright had to be in the possession of a man so handsome that a simple glance at him conjured up butterflies in her stomach.
The earl cleared his throat. “If you would kindly leave, I will forget this ridiculous hoax you are attempting to perpetrate”
His air of superiority caused something to snap inside Irina. With that condescending attitude he was suddenly less than handsome. It lent her the courage she needed. She had not come here to be dismissed out of hand like an errant beggar on the back stoop or worse, a twopenny con artist.
“You haven’t even opened the folder.” She flicked her eyes to the leather case he held in his hands. “There is proof inside that I am who I say I am”
He raised his eyebrows, conveying his skepticism without uttering a word. He took the chair across from the one she’d occupied and crossed his booted legs at the heels, affecting a pose of leisure. “Shall I guess what is inside? Is it a birth certificate? A will naming you heir?”
Irina schooled her features to give nothing away. She realized he was mocking the very items which had sustained her hopes over the long years. She grabbed the folder from him when it became obvious he had no intentions of opening it. She pulled out the document concealed inside and pressed it flat on the table between the two chairs. “This is a copy of my birth certificate. It shows that I am the daughter of Celeste and George Moncrief, Earl and Countess of Spelthorne, born September 14, 1787.”
If she had thought to win points in her favor for this disclosure, she would be disappointed. The earl looked at the paper and sighed indulgently, his tone still mocking. “My dear, you shall have to do far better than this. This paper is the kind of forgery sold on the London streets every day. I hope you haven’t squandered a great sum on this.”
“I have spent nothing on it,” Irina pressed. “It is notarized by the village curate here in Spelthorne and signed by the doctor, William Tallbridge. I doubt a common forgery would produce those details.”
“A forger could do so if you provided the names. Besides, I have nothing against which to match the signatures of the witnesses. For your convenience, or inconvenience depending on how you look at it, Dr. Tallbridge passed on last winter and
the curate was promoted years ago to his own parish. Neither is here to serve as your witnesses.” The earl countered smugly, tucking his arms behind his head as he stretched in the chair. Irina almost believed he was enjoying himself.
She fought the urge to bite her lip in frustration. Those circumstances were unfortunate. She’d not been able to ascertain the whereabouts of the two witnesses. She’d merely hoped one of them would still be about. After all, life didn’t change quickly or often in the country.
She persisted. “This is not a forgery. It was given to me by the woman who accompanied me into exile and was present at my birth.”
The earl laughed out loud at that. “Is she dead too? Does it bother you that all who hold the key to ensuring the success of your charade are gone? Even the supposed parents are both deceased. There is no one to believe your papers or support your claims.” His tone became irritatingly deferential as he rose and began pacing. “You’ve had your laugh. Your little scam is not going to play well here. If noblemen gave into such claims every time a bastard by-blow issued a declaration of legitimacy the peerage would be in constant turmoil. I will thank you to take your papers and get out. Your claim to be a sister of sorts is summarily dismissed and as such any claim you might have to my home”
Irina rose to meet him, her voice quiet with its force. “You don’t understand. I don’t claim to be your sister by any stretch of blood. Indeed, my lord, I don’t claim to be any relation at all seeing as you are nothing more than a cottager’s son bought for a bag of guineas by a woman who would ensure that her husband had a male heir at all costs”
“You go too far!” Spelthorne whirled on her with an unrestrained roar.
He was magnificent in his anger, and she was gratified to note that at last she’d gotten past his wellpolished exterior. She drew a battered red book from a hidden pocket in her skirts. “It’s all written here in Celeste’s journal” She held it out to him.
The earl seemed to blanch at the evidence and then recovered his bravado. “Again, without collaboration, written proof is easy enough to forge. There is no one to support what you say”
“No one but you, Spelthorne.” She made her ultimatum. “Search your heart. You know the truth regarding the nature of your parents’ relationship. You will know whether or not what is inside the journal is the truth. There are things in the journal no one would know; things no one could find out years later and fabricate. Read it, and you’ll know for certain.”
The earl’s dashing blue eyes narrowed. “You should know that I will not be compelled to give testimony against myself. I will not cede this place or title to anyone. This place is mine by the burden of responsibility, if nothing else”
“And it is mine by blood. I was born to it.” Irina retorted, rising to the fight. “I will not be fobbed off.”
The handsome earl smiled and nodded smugly, the anger dissipating in the wake of his knowing grin. Irina felt her knees turn watery beneath the heavy folds of her skirts. It wouldn’t do for him to know how affected she was by a smile. If he knew, he would simply kiss her into dropping her claim. She blushed at the image conjured by her thoughts. She’d heard of women who had traded away sensible options for a few moments of stolen pleasure. She would not be one of them, not after coming so far and risking so much. Tonight she was alone in the world except for the small trunk she’d stashed under Giles’s bed and the coins hidden inside, scrimped together from years of hard work.
“Everyone has their price. What is yours?”
It wasn’t until she processed his words that she realized how dangerously far afield her thoughts had wandered and why he was smiling. He smiled because he was attempting to buy her. Well, the price might be more than he was willing to pay.
“I want to stay at the abbey until you’ve read the diary and have reached your conclusions, whatever they might be, about my claims.”
The request won her the startled look she sought. “What? No request for a thousand pounds or a townhouse in London and an annual allowance? Do you think your price is wise? I shall read the diary during the remainder of the night, and I shall conclude against you by morning. I will send you off with a hearty breakfast and that shall be the end”
“You say that only because you haven’t read the diary yet”
“You are a fool to think I can be so easily gulled. Regardless of what the diary says, I won’t concede Spelthorne to you” Spelthorne argued.
The lamp burned low, having used its reserve of oil, casting shadows in the ever-darkening room. Irina stepped forward, closer to Spelthorne. Perhaps it was time to change tactics. She doubted there was any headway to be made arguing logic with a man who was both intelligent and used to getting his own way. She dared to rest a hand on the starched perfection of his white shirt, reveling in the feel of the strong chest beneath, even as it reminded her that she toyed with a man powerful in all ways. Her voice was low and husky when she spoke.
“Yes, you will. I know you, Giles Moncrief. You are a man of honor. You would not tolerate your life being built on a wrong done to another.”
“You know nothing about me” His voice echoed the husky tones of hers, his eyes drawn to the heat of her hand where it pressed against him and she knew a small victory. Her breath caught at the realization. This man was drawn to her. Magda would tell her to use that against him but her own moral code, so different than that of the Rom, did not find the option appealing.
Still, she could not step back from seizing the moment. “You are a man of honor and great passion.” She whispered, lifting her eyes to his, unprepared for the blue fire that blazed within them.
“Yes, so you told me once. But that fortune has not come to pass. You promised me a great passion but I have yet to find it.” The dangerous glint in his eyes confirmed he knew the proverbial battlefield was shifting from logic to something else.
Who was flirting with whom now? She would have to remind him she was doing the flirting here. Irina traced a line down his chest with a light finger. She tipped her head backward, letting her train of curls fall down her back while she looked up at him. “Haven’t you?”
Desire kindled plainly in his eyes at her suggestion. She whetted her lips in invitation. To make sure there was no room for misunderstanding, she stepped into him, feeling the lightest brush of his lips on hers, catching the scent of wine on his breath, reminiscent of his elaborate dinner. She fell into the kiss, letting Giles’s arms take her weight-only they didn’t.
A man coughed, and then she was falling in an ignominious heap to the floor.
“Excuse me, Giles.” A smooth voice said from the doorway unbothered by what he’d interrupted.
Irina noted it took Giles a moment to gather himself. It was small satisfaction though when her ankle throbbed from landing on it. The blackguard had dropped her.
“Tristan, what can I do for you?”
The dark viscount lounged dangerously in the doorway, a laugh hovering about his mouth. “I think the better question is what I can do for you. Is everything alright? I have the room next door. I thought I heard a heated argument” He raised a challenging eyebrow, daring any one to contradict his assumptions.
Irina felt her skin heat. Who knew what else he guessed at? She was thankful at least for the dim light which hid the worst of her flush. What awful luck that Giles’s dear friend was next door. She didn’t miss the implications of that. The viscount had made it subtly clear that he would not tolerate his friend being taken advantage of.
In her mortification, Irina wanted to shout her virtue out loud. She had dared a kiss, nothing more.
“Ahem, Catherine?” Giles looked down at her and offered her a hand up. “Shall we get you settled? I am sure you’re tired from your delayed journey. I’ll have your trunk sent to the east wing. There’s a room for you there” He toed the part of the trunk peeping out from under his bed. “It seems the footmen brought it to the wrong room”
The use of her birthname startled her but she sa
w the rationale for it. Tristan might recall her from the long ago night on the Denbigh’s porch. She was not ready to voice her claims to Giles’s friends. Silently, she thanked Giles for the kindness.
A footman arrived, grumpy from being awakened in the middle of the night and took her trunk. She had no choice but to follow it to her room, wherever the west wing was. But she left feeling victorious. She’d won round one. Giles had accepted the wager. He would read the diary.
Giles stood rigidly, watching Irina/Catherine disappear down the hall. He waited. Tristan would have something to say. He wouldn’t have so flagrantly violated protocol by bursting into his chambers if there hadn’t been cause.
“That is not Lady FoxHaughton,” Tristan offered by way of observation, as Irina faded down the hallway.
“No. It is not,” Giles said stiffly.
“When you said there would be fireworks tonight, I thought you’d meant pyrotechnics. I didn’t think it would be your seducing the gypsy queen from the vardo”
“Don’t be crass, Tristan.” Giles raked his hands through his hair.
“You’ve always been a cut above such behavior, is all.” Tristan shrugged.
Giles turned towards the window and sighed. There was no shaking Tristan when he was on to something. For whatever reason, Tristan smelled blood now. He wouldn’t get his friend out of his room until Tristan had heard the whole story. “She claims to be the only legitimate child from my parents’ marriage.” Giles gestured towards the documents spread on the table.
“I see. Exactly, what does that make you?”
“The poor cottager’s son”
“Of course.” There was no missing the sardonic tone in Tristan’s voice. “I’ll wake Alain. It’s going to be a long night, and it’s no fun watching the sun rise alone.”
Giles paced the length of the elegant cherry-paneled study, his agitation evident in the furrow he’d worn in the thick-piled Axminster carpet, walking between the heavy cherry wood desk and the gracious bank of floorto-ceiling windows that looked out over the south lawn. Leaning on the desk top, he planted his hands and pressed his weight against them, drawing deep breaths in the hopes of gathering his shaken composure.
