Fancy had never shared any intimate teasing with her husband, and she was uncertain how to reply. She was also rapidly becoming aware of what had actually transpired, and embarrassment and guilt at her incredibly uncharacteristic actions were banishing any lingering pleasure. To her further embarrassment, she suddenly realized that Chance was still fully clothed—as was she. A burst of shame went through her. She, the Baroness Merrivale, had been tumbled in the grass like any common tavern slattern. And by a man she didn’t even like.
Thoroughly mortified, her eyes looking anywhere but at Chance’s dark face, she pushed forcefully against his shoulders. “Get off of me,” she said raggedly.
Chance hesitated, but then, realizing that her mood had undergone one of those baffling feminine changes, he slid regretfully from her body. “Whatever pleases you, Duchess,” he said lightly.
Fancy’s jaw clenched, but she made no reply. Still avoiding looking at him, she sat up and with trembling hands rearranged her clothing. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him lounging on the ground beside her, propped up with one elbow, his breeches still unfastened. Thankfully there was no sign of the “beast,” but she was acutely uncomfortable and embarrassed. She was appalled by what had happened, hardly daring to believe what she had done. And she had done it. The small pleasurable ache between her thighs and the fuzziness of her lips plainly told her so. She had kissed him, caressed him, and allowed him to make love to her. Allowed him to seduce her. Allowed him to make the reason for their hasty marriage a fact.
Suspicion suddenly darkened her eyes, and glaring at him, she said accusingly, “You did that deliberately, didn’t you?”
Unaware of her meaning, and assuming she referred to the way he had made love to her, Chance merely grinned at her and drawled teasingly, “Oh, indeed I did, Duchess. I deliberately enjoyed it, too, and after we are married, I intend to deliberately make love to you as often as I can.”
Already angry and resentful at the entire morning’s events, Fancy lost her temper. Before she had time to think, she had twisted around and slapped him—hard. Eyes blazing, she spat, “You are the most aggravating, horrid man I have ever met in my life. And I cannot imagine how I will survive being married to you.”
Chance’s grin vanished the instant her hand connected to his face. Sitting up, he thoughtfully rubbed his smarting cheek. “You want to tell me what brought that on? A moment ago, you were willing in my arms and you gained as much pleasure from our coupling as I did—do not try to deny it. And I should warn you”—his eyes narrowed—“strike me again like that and you will not appreciate my reaction—that I can promise you.”
Fancy was outraged. “What brought it on?” she almost shrieked. “You deliberately compromised me by being found uninvited in my bed.” She took in a deep, furious breath. “And just now, you calculatingly set out to make this morning’s ugly farce the truth. And then you make light of it. And if that was not bad enough, you have the audacity to threaten me.”
“I did not threaten you,” Chance said carefully. “I warned you.”
Fancy surged to her feet and snatched up her bonnet. Jamming it on her head, she snapped, “And I am warning you: marry me and I shall make your life a living hell.”
Chance leaned back on his elbow and smiled up at her. “ ’Tis an odd thing, Duchess, but I’ve always enjoyed playing with fire.”
Fancy’s teeth ground together, and with a sound halfway between a snarl and a snort, she spun on her heels and stalked furiously away.
Chance stared after her, his grin widening. Marriage to his duchess was going to be most interesting. Most interesting indeed.
Chapter Ten
The marriage between Frances Anne Merrivale and Chance Walker took place on August 26, 1774. It was a hot, humid day, the threat of a thunderstorm looming on the horizon, but no one seemed to pay the dark, ominous clouds any heed as Fancy and Chance exchanged their vows. Only Fancy, her face outwardly serene, felt that the weather was clearly indicative of her future as Chance Walker’s wife.
They were married in the late afternoon by a traveling preacher whom Sam had sent for and who regularly made a circuit through this sparsely settled area. Preacher Parker was a bluff, jovial fellow, and he was very happy to do a favor for his generous benefactor, Sam Walker.
Everyone, it seemed, was very happy to do anything that Sam asked of them. Staring moodily at the throng of laughing, lighthearted guests who crowded around the long tables that had been arranged outside under a stand of towering oaks and were filled to overflowing with all manner of delicious food and drink, Fancy scowled. The Walker men seemed to have a definite knack for getting their own way, she thought sourly.
All during the previous fortnight, Fancy had hoped and prayed fervently that something would go wrong, that somehow she could escape from the trap Chance had set for her. A trap she had helped spring when she had fallen into his arms like a disgustingly eager light-skirted trollop.
Even now she couldn’t believe that she had allowed Chance to make love to her—or that she was married to him. Uneasily her gaze moved to where he was standing just six feet away from her, talking easily to a group of men that included Morely, Hugh, and Sam. Chance looked very handsome, incredibly so, with a froth of lace falling down the front of his shirt, his rose-colored silk jacket and breeches and heavily embroidered white satin waistcoat fitting him superbly. In honor of the occasion, his thick black hair was powdered and tied back with a long black silk ribbon. It made him look very different, almost a stranger.
Fancy’s mouth twisted. He was a stranger. And God help her, she had married him.
She was no longer the dowager baroness, Lady Merrivale. From this day forward she would be known simply as Mrs. Walker. The loss of her title didn’t worry her; it had never meant that much to her anyway. But the loss of her independence, the knowledge that her entire future lay in the powerful hands of a man she barely knew—a man with a dangerous, unsavory reputation (if Jonathan was to be believed) and a man who had proven, at least to her, that he was a blackguard and a scoundrel—filled her with something approaching terror. That she also found this same man devastatingly attractive, that with a simple glance from his blue eyes he could set her pulse pounding, that his slightest touch made her heart race, only added to her terror.
It had been a long time since Fancy had felt so helpless, so vulnerable, and she was angry and resentful at the way Chance had manipulated her. Even her marriage to Spencer, though she had been young and innocent, had not created the furor inside of her that this wedding to Chance did. And the worst of it was that there was no one with whom she could share her emotional disturbance. Everyone else was so pleased by the marriage. Even Ellen. In fact, Fancy thought grimly, Ellen was thrilled by the marriage. There was no question of them returning to England now, at least not any time soon. Ellen would have plenty of time to work her wiles on Hugh.
Knowing she was being unfair, Fancy was annoyed with herself. None of this was Ellen’s fault. And she should be happy that a terrible scandal had been avoided.
She grimaced. Sam and Letty, Morely and his wife, Prudence, had done their work well. Carefully selected Walker cousins had arrived for the wedding, and while there were the occasional flickers of speculation in the eyes of the people she was introduced to, Fancy knew that the family was closing ranks behind Sam and Letty. There would be no scandal.
The story concocted by Chance—that they had fallen in love after she had escaped from the Thackers and he had rescued her—was happily accepted. Most thought it very romantic. And if someone was slow-witted enough to mention that it was Jonathan’s name that had been connected with Fancy’s, a sharp look and quick jab in the ribs put all to rights.
Fancy supposed she should have been grateful that all had gone well. Unfortunately, she wasn’t. She seemed to be the only one who viewed Chance with a jaundiced eye, the only one who knew to what depraved depths he would sink to get his own way. Except perhaps Jonathan. . .
.
He and Constance had returned to Walker Ridge just three days ago, and the atmosphere in the house had been fraught with seething undercurrents the moment they had stepped inside. There was much about the situation between Chance and Jonathan that troubled Fancy. She knew of the longstanding hostility between them, and the uneasy suspicion had crossed her mind that the sole reason Chance had acted so unscrupulously toward her had been simply to steal her away from Jonathan. Which was ridiculous, she thought wearily, since she had never really been the woman Jonathan had planned to marry in the first place. But Chance didn’t know that interesting little fact. No one did. And Jonathan’s actions, as well as Ellen’s, both prior and afterward, had not helped to clarify things.
As she stood there sipping a glass of punch, her gaze traveled across the wide expanse of lawn to where Jonathan was standing between Constance and Letty, his lean face giving away nothing of what he was thinking. She knew that Sam and Letty had been fearful that Jonathan and Chance would come to blows over what had happened, which was why Jonathan had been temporarily banished to Foxfield. Certainly the reactions of the two men when in each other’s company gave credence to those fears. Even having had several days in which to calm down and accept the situation had not done Jonathan much good; it was plain from the set of his mouth and the ugly glitter in his eyes that he was furious at the turn of events. There was an almost palpable hint of violence in the air whenever he and Chance were anywhere near each other.
Jonathan’s reaction had puzzled Fancy. Certainly he had a right to be outraged at the black mark on the family honor that Chance’s actions had caused, but not to the extent that he seemed to be. There was something very personal about his fury, almost as if he felt that Chance had deliberately insulted him, which had led Fancy to her suspicion that perhaps Chance had compromised her in order to thwart Jonathan.
It was an unpleasant thought, and it did nothing to soothe the angry, resentful emotions roiling in her breast. Fancy would have been much more resigned to her fate if she could have believed that Chance, as he had led everyone else to think, really had been thoroughly bedazzled by her and that he had been unable to stop himself from pursuing her so ardently. She didn’t believe it for one moment—not when he mocked her, taunted her, and went out of his way to infuriate her at every turn. No one could have convinced her that there wasn’t an ulterior motive behind his every act. Every time he was in Jonathan’s presence, every time he smiled derisively at Jonathan or his eyes rested mockingly on the other man’s closed features, her suspicions deepened that she had merely been a pawn in some duel between them.
Across the space that divided them, Jonathan’s gaze suddenly met hers. He smiled without amusement and then deliberately turned away to speak to Ellen, who had just wandered up.
Fancy watched them as Jonathan began to pay extravagant court to a surprisingly willing Ellen, and her puzzlement with the entire situation grew. Had Jonathan, like the swine she had been compelled to marry, had a secret strategy that included a change of brides? Herself, instead of Ellen? His behavior since they had reached the Colonies would certainly have led one to believe that scenario. And now that she had been taken out of the running, had he fallen back onto Ellen? Or had he always intended to marry Ellen?
Fancy frowned as she continued to stare at the pair of them, watching as Ellen smiled winningly up at something Jonathan had said. What the devil was Ellen playing at? She had been very aloof and cool toward Hugh recently—after practically hanging on his every word for the past several days. Had Ellen changed her mind again and decided that perhaps she had been mistaken in her love for Hugh?
It was all very confusing, and Fancy wished she knew precisely how it would end. Her fate, of course, was already sealed, and she was not looking forward to the future as Mrs. Chance Walker.
Her gaze met Jonathan’s again, and something in the way he looked at her made her wonder suddenly how he had felt when he had watched her marry Chance. He shouldn’t have felt anything but relief that disgrace and dishonor had not been brought upon the proud Walker name. After all, despite the misunderstanding, a misunderstanding that still had not been corrected, it was Ellen who was to have been his bride, not her.
“Regretting your choice already?” drawled Chance from behind her.
Fancy stiffened and turned to glance at him, her heart thumping as she met his hard blue eyes. “Why, whatever do you mean?” she asked crisply. “I do not remember that I had much of a choice in the matter.”
Chance’s eyes narrowed, and for one moment she thought that he was going to answer her taunt; but instead he merely cocked a brow and nodded in Jonathan’s direction. A cool, unamused smile on his mouth, he said softly, “Did you think that I would not notice the exchange of melting looks between the pair of you?”
She had thought him immersed in his conversation with the other gentlemen, but obviously he had been watching her and had seen that she had been looking at Jonathan. There had been nothing the least “melting” in the looks she had exchanged with him, and a little spurt of anger kicked through her. “I think,” she said stiffly, “that you are imagining things.”
“Am I?” he asked softly, his gaze intent upon her face. He reached out and ran a caressing hand down her arm. “I think I should warn you that I am a possessive man. What is mine I keep, and I do not share, or allow others to use what belongs to me. You should remember that fact in the future—especially with any dealings you may have with my beloved cousin Jonathan.”
Fancy drew in a furious breath at the implication of his words, and it was all she could do to keep herself from tossing the remains of her punch into his handsome face. If they had been alone, she would have given in to the angry impulse, but as it was, she only tightened her grip on the delicate crystal and said in a low, enraged voice, “You insult me. And you insult yourself by implying you married a woman who would forsake her vows so easily that she would be looking for ways to cuckold you on your wedding day.”
Heedless of who might be watching, she would have stormed off, but Chance’s hand fastened around her upper arm. She glared up at him, and he smiled wryly at her. “Forgive me. I was insulting, and I did not mean to be so.”
He hesitated, as if uncertain how to continue, and then he sighed and muttered, “Fancy, I know that none of this has been easy for you, and I am sorry for it. But whatever reasons may lie behind our marriage today, we are married. You are my wife, and I would only warn you that Jonathan means me no good. Be careful of him.”
Too angry and resentful by what had befallen her at his hands, Fancy was in no mood to listen to him. “Do you know,” she said tightly, “that he warned me against you? And considering that you have shown yourself to be without scruples or honor, I am far more likely to heed his warning than yours.”
She carefully extricated her arm and then, sending him a smile as false as it was dazzling, walked across the lawn toward the group that contained Jonathan and Ellen. Chance watched her go, a faint frown creasing his brow.
Chance didn’t know what he had expected to happen over the previous fortnight, but he certainly hadn’t planned on being treated by his bride-to-be with the frostiest manner he had ever encountered from anyone in his life. He had known that after he had made love to her, Fancy would be a trifle skittish around him. But he had been confident that he could eventually win her ’round. A deprecating smile curved his mouth. Such had not been the case. She avoided him as though he carried leprosy in the very air around him. Any moment he contrived for them to be alone, she had neatly managed to escape. Since that afternoon on the bluff he had not been able to exchange more than a half a dozen words with her, and he was beginning to be just a little annoyed. She was his wife, dammit!
A surge of satisfaction went through him at that thought, and he grinned. Despite all his fears that she would escape him, he had managed to well and truly shackle her to him. Duchess was his. And tonight she would lie in his arms, and for all the other night
s of their lives she would be there beside him.
Watching through narrowed eyes as Fancy gaily laughed and chatted with great animation with Jonathan and the others gathered around him, Chance was conscious of a faint unease. He had managed to marry Fancy, but was he going to be able to keep history from repeating itself? His jaw clenched. Fancy was no Jenny, but if Jenny, who had professed to love him, could be seduced, what was to stop Fancy, who obviously did not love him, from following in her footsteps—if for no other reason than to pay him back for forcing her into marriage?
Not liking the train of his thoughts, Chance scowled and reminded himself again that Fancy was not Jenny. And this time, he vowed grimly, his gaze boring into Fancy’s back, he would make damn certain that his wife did not stray, that his arms and bed were the only ones in which she found satisfaction.
“Displeased with your bride so soon?” teased Hugh as he came up to stand beside Chance.
Chance made a face. “Rather my bride is displeased with me,” he replied dryly, glancing at Hugh.
Hugh looked rueful. His gaze resting in perplexity on Ellen’s lively features, he admitted, “You are not the only male to displease one of the Merrivale sisters. Ellen has treated me with unaccustomed coolness these past few days, and I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve her displeasure.”
“Ah, now there I think I can help you,” Chance answered lightly. At Hugh’s look of inquiry, he went on, “Haven’t you been treating Ellen much like one of your younger sisters? I saw you teasing her on Tuesday, pinching her cheek and ruffling her hair as if she were ten years old.” Hugh opened his mouth to protest, but Chance went on, “And the other day, did you not sweep up Melly Sinclair in your arms when she sprained her ankle and carry her to the house?”
“Well, yes,” Hugh replied, obviously mystified. “But dash it all, Chance, Ellen is just a child.” Hugh flushed at the look Chance sent him. Pulling at his neatly tied cravat above his lace-covered shirt, he admitted awkwardly, “Oh, very well, perhaps I have been playing the older, wiser companion a little too assiduously. And as for Melly, why, Melly is a cousin. I have known her since she was a babe.”
A Heart for the Taking Page 17
