It was nearly an hour later before the two men were able to return upstairs. Jeffers, so drunk he could barely stand, had been singularly bent on killing Nathan, and it had taken all of Sam’s considerable persuasion to convince him that Nathan, also a bit the worse for liquor, had meant no grievous insult by having foolishly mentioned that he thought Jeffers’s sister, Lucy, possessed as Roman a nose as he had ever seen—except, of course, on a horse.
His hand resting on Morely’s shoulder as they walked slowly up the staircase, Sam said tiredly, “My God, I am grateful that those days of false pride and quick temper are behind me. And while I have enjoyed all the hubbub surrounding Chance’s marriage, I tell you frankly that I shall be most grateful when my house is empty of guests once more.” He smiled and shook his head. “Every room is filled, and I cannot deny that I shall be glad to see them all go.”
As they reached the landing on the second floor, Sam looked at Morely. “You realize that I do not include you and Prudence in that statement. You are always welcome.” Sam sighed. “It seems that we do not often have a chance to visit these days.”
Morely smiled faintly. “Pru has already informed me that she and Letty intend to have a nice long cozy visit once everyone has left.”
Sam nodded, pleased. “Capital! Most of the others plan on leaving in the morning, and while one or two may linger a few days longer, I think by Wednesday we shall have the house to ourselves again.” His face grew grim. “Definitely young Jeffers and Nathan will be sent on their way at first light—with well-deserved aching heads.”
A yawn suddenly stretched Sam’s mouth. Patting his lips with the back of his hand, he murmured, “I think ’tis bed for me, my friend.”
Morely nodded, half-relieved to have lost the opportunity to bring up that stormy night when he had found Chance. But whipping up his faltering resolve, he said stoutly, “Sam, after all the guests are gone, I would like to have a private word with you . . . about Chance.” He swallowed painfully. “It is very important that I finish our earlier conversation.”
Biting back another yawn, Sam muttered, “Of course. Of course. We will see to it, just as soon as things quiet down. And now, if you do not mind, old friend, I really must seek my bed before I fall asleep standing here talking to you.”
The two men parted, and as he wandered down the long hallway toward the room he shared with his wife, Morely told himself that this time he would not falter, this time he would let nothing dissuade him from speaking of those long-ago events. Sam would be told, and scandal be damned.
* * *
Lost in the wonder and delight of Fancy’s sweet body, Chance would have been utterly indifferent to learn how close Morely had come to revealing his parentage. At present Chance had other things on his mind than the facts surrounding his birth. Pulling Fancy once more into his arms, he proceeded to take full advantage of the truce they had made. Dawn would come too soon, and with it, he was certain, Fancy would erect a formidable barrier between them. A barrier, he thought dizzily as he again sank his aching manhood into her soft, tight channel, he would take delight in demolishing when darkness fell again.
The darkness was too brief for Fancy. Everything was too wondrously new, too exciting, for her to think of anything but Chance and what he was doing to her. He was ravenous for her, and no matter how many times during that long, intoxicating night he took her to the heights of pleasure, he could not seem to get his fill of her . . . or she of him. Lost in the magic she found in his arms, she had had no time to think of the chasm between them, no moment to consider what she would do once daylight arrived and the devastating intimacy they shared was to end.
Despite her first marriage, despite having shared another man’s bed, Fancy had never known, never guessed, never dreamed, of the physical pleasures to be shared between a man and a woman. Every time Chance touched her, every time his hungry mouth found hers and he delved slowly into her, she was stunned by the powerful emotions, the drugging, honeyed ecstasy, that flooded her. The pink-and-gold dawn was streaking against the brightening sky before Chance finally let her fall into a sweetly exhausted slumber. Her body ached in a way she had never before experienced, yet it was such a delicious ache, such a delightfully wicked ache, that she smiled as her eyes closed.
But daylight brought a whole host of problems for her, and as Fancy slipped deeper and deeper into sleep she was conscious of a niggling unease. Even in sleep a little frown formed on her forehead. What was it? What could possibly disturb her feeling of blissful satisfaction? Her bemused fascination with her new husband? What could dare shatter her thrill of anticipation for the future that shimmered beneath all the other emotions Chance had aroused?
Chance watched her as she slept, a sated, silly smile on his handsome face. She was everything he had ever dreamed of, everything he had ever wanted in a woman, in a wife. At that moment, he didn’t care a farthing that he had gained her hand by outright trickery and blunt coercion. She was his.
Gently he brushed back a strand of gleaming dark brown hair that cascaded across her face, marveling at how lovely she was to him, even in sleep. Her long, curly lashes lay like great dark fans upon her cheeks; the faintest hint of pink tinted those same delicate cheekbones, and her mouth was slightly swollen and still rosy from his passionate kisses. As he stared at her, memorizing her every feature, something piercingly sweet knifed through the region of his heart and Chance’s breath caught in his throat.
He was, he realized, happier than at any other time in his life—and his happiness, his future, his entire world, seemed to have come down to this one slim woman. Not even when he had married Jenny had he felt this wild delight, this lazy contentment, this powerful, eager anticipation for what life would hold for him, married to Fancy. And it worried him. A great deal.
Some of his pleasure faded and a scowl began to form on his face. It was dangerous, damnably so, what he was feeling for Fancy. He had sworn after Jenny’s death never to let another woman have power over him. Time and again in the years since those pain-filled terrible days following the discovery of Jenny’s infidelity and suicide, he had reminded himself of the agony she had inflicted upon him, and had fiercely renewed his vow never to love again, never to give his heart to a little pair of careless feminine hands—no matter how tempting.
He took a deep breath. It wasn’t love that he felt for his new bride, he told himself stoutly. Of course, he had a fondness for her—he wasn’t without feelings—and she did delight him. And please him. And satisfy him—utterly. And she would continue to do so, he decided grimly, as long as he kept his heart safe from her destructive grasp.
Mollified by his reasoning, Chance settled one long arm possessively over Fancy, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth, and dozed contentedly.
Though she slept deeply, Fancy’s frown did not abate, nor did that feeling of unease go away. It hovered just at the edges of her mind, never quite showing itself yet making its uncomfortable presence felt. Only some hours later, as she was slowly waking, did the nameless, relentless niggle reveal itself, and everything that she had pushed away, all those volatile, hurtful emotions and dark suspicions she had deliberately ignored when she had agreed to Chance’s truce the night before, suddenly came rushing back.
Still half-asleep, she gave a little moan, shaking her head in vehement denial. Oh, she couldn’t have been so stupid. Surely she had not agreed to that ridiculous truce of his? It would be, she realized sickly, impossible to keep. What had she been thinking of? Her mouth curved bitterly. Oh, she knew what she had been thinking of—she’d been foolishly thinking of Chance’s kisses, his embrace, the wild, wondrous feelings he evoked within her . . . and just look where it had led her.
She buried her head deeper into the pillows, trying to escape from the unpleasant thoughts that were racing through her brain. But it was useless. Like stinging wasps, they bedeviled her until she conceded painfully that it was folly to think she would be able to hold Chance at a distance and r
evile him during the day and then at night come sweetly into his arms—no matter how very much she wanted to be in his embrace. And she admitted not very happily that she did want to be clasped passionately in those strong arms. She squirmed with shame at that admission. How could she be so base? So at the mercy of emotions she hadn’t even known she possessed?
Attempting to keep Chance’s vile truce, even for a short while, was fraught with all sorts of pitfalls. Continuing this farce of daytime hostility and nighttime loving belittled and made a mockery of her deepest emotions. And she had been a fool to think otherwise.
Ashamed of her own weakness, resentful that she had allowed Chance to brush aside her very real reservations, and thoroughly miserable at the trap she had dug for herself, Fancy finally opened her eyes. It didn’t help that the first thing she saw was her despicable husband grinning down at her.
“Good morning, Duchess,” Chance said softly, his eyes resting warmly on her face.
Fancy jerked upright and, clutching the sheet protectively across her bosom, scooted as far away from him as the bed would allow. Brushing back a swath of tumbled curls, she snarled, “Do not call me Duchess. In case you have forgotten, we were married yesterday and I no longer have any title.”
He cocked a brow. “That is not precisely true, you know. You now have the title of ‘Mrs.,’ as in Mrs. Chance Walker.”
Fancy flashed him a look of loathing. “Do not remind me.”
Chance sighed. “When I suggested that ridiculous truce last night, I had hoped that by daylight you would realize just how ridiculous it was.” He grimaced and, heedless of his nakedness, swung out of bed. Dragging on a burgundy Chinese silk robe and tying the sash, he said over his shoulder, “If we are going to fight, I at least would like some breakfast.” He nodded toward a marble-topped washstand in one corner. “And I am certain that you will feel much better once you’ve thrown some cold water into your face and brushed your hair.” His mouth twisted. “Women usually do.”
“You know so very much about women?” Fancy asked sarcastically. “Strange, I would never have guessed it.”
Chance shrugged. Ignoring her, he walked over to a velvet rope and gave it a sharp yank.
Reluctantly deciding that there was much sense in what Chance had said, Fancy found her wrapper and gown and hastily slipped into the garments. The clothing made her feel better, and just as her infuriating husband had suggested, she felt even better once she had washed her face and ruthlessly applied his brush to her tangled curls.
Chance, his broad shoulders propped against one of the bedposts, had watched her in silence and, once she was done, had given her a mocking little bow and proceeded with his own morning ablutions. Staring resentfully as he vigorously splashed water all over the marble top and then ran the brush swiftly through his black hair, Fancy decided that it was palpably unfair for him to look so handsome with such little effort. She was certain she looked a perfect hag, while he . . . Reminding herself fiercely that it was Chance’s dark charms that had gotten her into this situation in the first place, Fancy resolutely dragged her gaze away from his handsome form.
Her chin set at a pugnacious angle, she said stiffly, “I realize that last night was entirely my fault. I should never have allowed myself to—”
“Be swept off your feet by my wicked charm?” Chance drawled with a wicked gleam in his dark blue eyes.
Fancy threw him a look. “Precisely,” she said through gritted teeth. “It shan’t happen again.”
“How can you be so certain?” he asked softly as he approached her.
Fancy threw out a commanding hand. “Stop. Right where you stand.” When he obeyed, she took a deep breath and said tightly, “It will not happen again, because you are going to give me your word as, as a gentleman, that until I feel easy in my mind about our marriage, you will not take unfair advantage me.”
Chance stared at her, thunderstruck. “You want my word that I will not attempt to make love to you again?” he asked in tones of stupefaction.
Fancy nodded. “Your word as a gentleman.”
“And if I do not give it?” There was a decided edge to his voice.
Fancy swallowed. “There is nothing I can do to stop you from forcing me into your bed—whether you use brute strength or, or . . .” She hesitated, and a blush stained her cheeks. “Or the powers of persuasion you subjected me to last night. But the result would be the same. I would grow to hate you, and any hope of our marriage eventually being anything other than a living hell for both of us would be lost.”
“I see,” Chance said slowly, his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. “You are telling me that I can take you to bed, but that if I do, you will hate me.”
Fancy nodded again.
He smiled grimly. “Then tell me what is different from our present situation? Haven’t you already stated that you hate me? What will I gain—other than sleepless nights and a lonely bed?”
She regarded him uncertainly. “My respect?”
“It is not your damned respect, Madame Wife, that I am particularly interested in.”
“Well, you should be,” Fancy flashed back, an angry sparkle in her eyes. “You forced me into this marriage by knavery and trickery. How can I have any other feeling for you but disgust and hatred? And now, all I am asking is that you give us time to learn to respect and care for each other.”
Her words were not what Chance wanted to hear, but there was enough logic in them to give him pause. The last thing he wanted, especially after last night, was to sleep alone, but he was aware that Fancy had a certain amount of right on her side and that, except for those sleepless nights and a lonely bed, he had nothing to lose by giving her the promise she wanted, and perhaps much to gain.
“How long would you hold me to my promise?” he asked abruptly.
“How long?”
He shot her an impatient look. “Yes. If I agree to your terms, how long am I to be denied my conjugal rights. A week? A month? A year?”
Fancy swallowed nervously, hardly daring to believe that he was actually considering doing what she wanted. “I do not know,” she answered. “It would depend upon—”
“Upon your deciding not to hate me anymore?” he asked dryly. At her nod, he added, “Considering your oft-stated opinion of me, I doubt a decade would be long enough for you to change your mind. Unfortunately for you, I am not willing to wait that long. A month. I will give you my promise that I will not compel you to suffer my lovemaking for one month.” His voice hardened. “But you will share my bed.”
Fancy opened her mouth to hotly refute his words, but Chance said harshly, “No. There is no further argument. I agree to abide by your absurd terms for one month. Do not, Madame Wife, push me for more or I may change my mind and not grant you even that.”
Fancy fought back her anger at his high-handed manner, but she realized unhappily that she had gained as much as she was going to—at least for now.
“Very well,” she said stiffly. “A month.”
“And you will sleep in my bed during this blasted month of abstinence.”
It was not a question. While Fancy would have liked to eliminate that particular provision, she knew from the expression on his face that it would not be wise to carry the discussion any further.
“And I will sleep in your bed.”
He gave her a curt nod, his face grim and set. “Then we agree. You have your damn month and—”
A timid knock on the door interrupted him. Muttering a curse under his breath, he strode in that direction. After fumbling for the key, he unlocked the door and, flinging it wide, snarled, “What?”
Annie Clemmons, pressed into light service because of the influx of so many guests for the wedding, stood warily in the hallway, a large silver tray with morning refreshments held in her hands. At Chance’s gruff words, her expression of wariness increased and she said uncertainly, “I believe that you rang, sir?”
Chance let his features relax. Stepping back, he said in m
ore normal tones, “Oh, I am sorry. I had forgotten. Please, come in. You can put the tray on that table over there.”
Precisely what it was that made Annie glance down at Chance’s bare feet, she never knew, but glance down she did.
Her gaze widened in mute terror at the sight of those six toes on Chance’s right foot, and with a muffled shriek she dropped the tray.
Staring at him as if he were the Devil incarnate, she muttered, “Dear merciful God! It is as I feared—you are alive!”
Chapter Fifteen
As Chance stared at her in amazement, Annie, a fist to her mouth, eyes wide and fearful, suddenly spun on her heel and disappeared down the hall. His gaze dropped to the mess on the floor in front of him, and shaking his head, he stepped back inside his room and shut the door.
Glancing over at Fancy, he muttered, “Not only does my wife object to me, but it seems that I now have the remarkable ability to terrify elderly women simply by speaking to them.” His mouth twisted. “Although in Annie’s case, she has always looked at me as if she expected me to sprout a second head.”
“Do not be silly,” Fancy said, still ruffled by the outcome of their discussion—if it could be called that. “You fairly shouted at her when you first opened the door. No wonder you startled her.”
Chance frowned. “She was not startled,” he said slowly. “She was terrified . . . but not until she looked . . .” He glanced downward. Now what the devil had disturbed her so? He opened the door and stood there studying the floor. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for the scattered items from the tray, met his eye. His frown deepened. Something had certainly frightened her. But what? His wandering gaze suddenly fell on his feet.
A Heart for the Taking Page 24
