by Cheryl Bolen
Now the scenario would change.
He was much too hungry for her to waste time on foreplay, and he was so angry that a swift deflowering would give him great pleasure. Cursing under his breath, he began to pace the carpet.
Another half hour passed. Damn, but he could be the gentleman no longer! He rushed to his dressing room and stormed through it, throwing open the door to his wife’s bedchamber. His eye went straight to the large tester bed draped in emerald silk. It was empty. His gaze circled the silent room.
Not a soul in sight.
Was the damn wench still in her dressing room? He stalked to the door and swung it open. The gown she had worn that day puddled on the floor, but neither its owner nor her maid were anywhere in sight.
What the hell? Seized by a blinding fury, he reentered her bedchamber and scanned the sumptuous room. A piece of parchment was propped up on the gilt escritoire. His brows scrunched down, he stalked to the desk and began to read.
Dear Lord Finkel,
I’ve had a change of heart. I do not wish to be your wife. Please don’t try to bring me back. I shall consult with my brother. Perhaps he can propose an agreeable manner in which we can dissolve this marriage. I’m truly sorry.
S.
A scalding, thundering rage bolted through him. He sure as hell was going to bring her back! She was his, by God. If he had to rape her, he’d make her his. He returned to his chamber and rang for a servant.
When his puzzled valet appeared, Lord Finkel spit out his orders. “Gather up all the footmen and have them meet me in the library.”
He swiftly dressed and went downstairs to the book-lined chamber. As soon as he took a seat behind his desk, he glanced at the floor and realized his valise was not there where he always kept it. His heart pounding, he leaped to his feet and began to search the room. But the bag was gone.
The first servant who entered the room had to bear his wrath. “Who in the hell’s taken my gray valise?”
“I couldn’t say, my lord.”
Lord Finkel pounded his desk. “Throckmorton! Come here at once.”
A few seconds later the panting butler entered the library. “My lord?”
“My valise is gone!” Lord Finkel said. “Do you know anything about it?”
“No, my lord.”
One of a pair of youthful footmen who came striding into the chamber answered him. “I believe your wife’s maid has it, my lord.”
“My wife’s maid?” Lord Finkel thundered. “Why in the hell didn’t you take it from her?”
The footman shrugged. “’Twern’t my place. I thought — because it was shabby like — you’d given it to the lady.”
He would gladly kill the bitch. And her mistress, too. His mouth set firmly, his voice grim, he appraised the room full of servants. “The woman is a thief. She and . . . Lady Finkel have disappeared with my valise. I want all of them back. Whichever of you finds the . . . ladies will be rewarded handsomely.”
* * *
Several hours later Sophia and Dottie, so exhausted they could barely set one foot in front of the other, exclaimed at the sight of the welcome lantern glow that illuminated the exterior of the posting inn at the town that must be Shelton. It had been more than two hours since they had seen a single halo of light—not even a carriage lamp, which was really not surprising. Only a lunatic would brave these muddy country roads at night during a wretched rain storm.
More than once during the miserable trek Sophia had asked herself if she would have gone out Lord Finkel’s window had she known that she would have to brave so savage a storm. No sooner had they cleared Upton Manor than thunder began to rumble and prodigious amounts of rain started to pound down upon them. Her merino cape was of little protection against the deluge. Indeed, not even the linen shift closest to her body remained dry. Her wet boots rubbed big, raw blisters on her feet. And she had never been so cold in her entire life. Despite all the physical discomforts, though, she thought she would rather be traipsing through a blizzard than be in Lord Finkel’s bed — beneath him.
Voices filled the livery stable, and the inn yard was crammed with conveyances. It was just her luck that on the night she fled Finkie’s bed the tiny village of Shelton had become a mecca for aborted London-bound travelers. Before she and Dottie even proceeded through the aged timber door of the Prickly Pig, she knew there would not be an available room.
She only hoped they could find a dry spot to wait for the morning post chaise—if the innkeeper did not toss out the pair of bedraggled women. She clutched Dottie’s bony forearm. “Remember, you are not to speak.” Then she threw open the door.
The blazing fire that warmed the room was a far more welcome sight than the forty or more persons — all men and all gaping at her — who crammed into the small tavern.
She flipped off the hood of her cape and held her head high as she regally strode to an aproned man who looked as if he could be the innkeeper. “My sister and I should like chambers,” she said.
Roars of laughter greeted her words. Her first thought was that everyone knew Dottie was not her sister, but then she realized they could not possibly know such a thing. Therefore, they must be laughing at the improbability of her securing a room on such a night as this.
“I’m sorry, miss. We’re full up tonight,” the man said in a kindly voice. He no doubt took pity on the deranged woman who stood before him soaked from head to toe.
She sighed. “If you could just secure a dry corner for us to wait until the morning post chaise . . .”
The innkeeper shrugged. “I’m sorry, miss, but this taproom’s the only place.”
She favored him with a radiant smile. Since she had left the school room (long ago), she had discovered that a smile from Lady Sophia Beresford was as treasured by men as a gift of shiny guineas. As she stood insipidly, her gaze flicked to the jagged tears in her costly cape and to the mud-encrusted boots. She ran a hand through her dark locks. It was rather like petting a wet duck. How perfectly UNappealing she must look! Even if she was flashing her best smile. Heaven help her if he took her for a doxie.
“I’ll see if I can find two more chairs,” he said, disappearing behind a swinging door.
She drew a sigh of relief that he’d not thought her a loose woman.
A moment later he returned with a spindleless chair in each hand. “I’ll sit you ladies in the corner and bring you some ’ot tea.”
“We would be exceedingly grateful,” Sophia said.
During the next hour as she sat there unable to talk to Dottie because of Dottie’s orders not to reply, Lady Sophia took the opportunity to observe the drunken men who surrounded them. They must be servants of the persons of quality who no doubt were fast asleep in comfortable beds upstairs. Though she was seven and twenty years of age and considered herself a woman of the world, Sophia had never before been in a room full of low-born men.
At the very instant she came to that realization, an exceedingly well-dressed man came striding into the taproom, with an older, less elegantly dressed man tagging behind him. No doubt, his valet. The younger man tossed off his dripping great coat, handed it to his servant, and scanned the room, his gaze flitting past Sophia before he made eye contact with the innkeeper and began to address him.
The room was so noisy Sophia could not hear what the man said, but she could not seem to remove her gaze from him. Without the enormous coat, he was uncommonly handsome. Though he was a gentleman from his starchy cravat to the tips of his shiny Hessians (which, unlike Sophia’s boots, were not muddy), there was a ruggedness about him. She could see him striding the bow of a pirate ship with broadsword in hand, his golden hair waving in the breeze, his exceedingly wide shoulders straining against a creamy linen shirt. His skin glowed with a healthy summer-like tan despite that it was the dead of winter.
She watched as the innkeeper solemnly shook his head, and the handsome newcomer nodded. A moment later, still standing at the bar, he tossed down a bumper of ale.
To keep from staring at the handsome man, she lifted the curtain to peer out the window. Her heart nearly exploded at what she saw. Two men whose Finkel livery showed beneath their gaping coats were handing their horses to an ostler. “Come, Dottie, quickly,” she commanded as she whipped out of her chair and strode to the bar to stand beside the Adonis. “Well met, sir. I’ve been searching for you,” she said boldly to the well dressed man.
He set down his drink and turned to regard her. She was careful to keep her back to the door while yanking Dottie’s arm so that she would do the same. Remembering her torn clothing, she prayed he would not mistake her for a trollop.
His very green eyes raked over her, and it was a moment before he replied. “Then you must be Isadore.”
It was several seconds before she found her voice. “Indeed I am, and this is my elder sister, Dorothea, who is a mute.”
She prayed Isadore was not a trollop.
Chapter 2
Though the two ladies did not resemble each other at all, William could more easily have believed the mute to be mother rather than sister to Isadore, whom he judged to be five and twenty years of age. At first he had not noticed the younger woman’s beauty behind the mud, ragged clothing, and disheveled hair. It wasn’t until she stood before him, speaking in her cultured voice, that he really looked at her and discovered the lovely face peeking out from the soggy mass of dark hair. His penetrating gaze took in her creamy skin, teeth that were as even and white as a blanket of snow, and huge chocolate eyes that were fringed with long, dark lashes. The woman was remarkably pretty.
For two weeks now he had been expecting to cross paths with the lovely Isadore but never imagined they would meet on a frigid night in a village far removed from London, a village whose name he could not even recall. Yet the moment he realized how beautiful this woman was, he was certain he had finally met Isadore.
Then he doubted himself. How could she possibly have known he’d be forced to stop in this wretched village because of a tumultuous rain storm? Of course, were it not raining, he would likely have needed to change horses here. She must have known this. She might even have been following him.
He was in a quandary as to what to expect now. Surely she did not have the bullion with her. And surely her frail looking sister was unaware of Isadore’s dealings with smugglers. It was imperative that they find a place to talk in private. “Would that I could offer you ladies a private parlor, but we are told that is impossible tonight.”
“As we have already discovered, sir,” Isadore answered.
“There just might be a way . . .” he began. “If you ladies will pardon me. . .” He bent to whisper in his valet’s ear, and the man departed.
A few moments later, a smiling Thompson returned and bent to whisper in his master's ear.
“If you ladies would be so kind as to come with us,” William said, striding toward his servant. “I believe my man has been able to persuade the inn’s proprietor to part with his private chambers for a few hours.”
“We’ll need to fetch our valises,” Isadore said, giving him a pleading look with those large, sultry eyes of hers.
William nodded at Thompson.
“Allow me to retrieve them, ladies,” the valet said.
Turning her face only slightly, Isadore directed him to the corner where two valises reposed in a wet puddle. “Thank you,” she told Thompson.
William could not tear his gaze from the lovely lady, especially since she had turned her head so stiffly. Was there something wrong with her? At least there was nothing wrong with her mind. This woman certainly had learned how and when to use her not-insignificant beauty to get exactly what she wanted from men. Is that how she had acquired the bullion?
As they strolled into the rooms located behind the kitchen, the innkeeper apologized profusely for the untidiness of his private chambers which consisted of a small, fire-lit parlor and an adjoining bedchamber.
“It is of no significance,” William said, eying the cluttered table tops and the rumpled bed in the next room. “I merely wished to provide a private, dry place for my . . . sisters, to change into dry attire, and perhaps get a bit of sleep. Clean linens are all that are required.”
While a plump woman made the bed, he directed his attention to Isadore. “Do you have everything you will need?”
Her gaze flicked to the saturated valises. “I fear all our clothing is damp, but I shall be very glad to be out of these clothes and am most grateful to you.”
“Then I will leave you ladies now,” he said, “but I’ll return in half an hour to see if I can be of any further service.” And try to find out about the bullion.
Those long lashes of hers dipped seductively. “You’ve been enormously helpful.”
When he and Thompson returned thirty minutes later, he momentarily thought he’d come to the wrong room. Not only had it been miraculously tidied, but all the furnishings had been rearranged. Seating surfaces that had once faced the fireplace were now turned away from it, presumably to shield their occupants’ vision away from the assortment of feminine garments that hung on racks strewn before the fire.
Isadore herself looked vastly different. Her mahogany coloured hair—now dry—was arranged in a stylish Grecian sweep, and she had donned a sapphire gown that, while wrinkled and damp, was of very fine quality. And she freely moved her person and her head, dispelling his earlier suspicion that something was wrong with her neck.
MacIver’s description did not do the woman justice. She was stunning.
In half an hour she had transformed from a shadowy figure of dubious repute into something of a well-born lady. Not, of course, that Isadore could precisely be a lady. Ladies did not secure gold bullion from smugglers.
She was more of an enigma than ever. Her gown and hairstyle indicated that she moved in fashionable circles, yet she had obviously taken charge of housekeeping and hair-arranging chores that were normally executed by a maid. Beauty notwithstanding, Isadore was resourceful, tidy, not without modesty, and was somewhat well bred. So why in the devil was she brokering gold bullion?
Even if she had mastered the use of sultry glances and purring voice to get what she wanted from men, William could not dislike her. “Should you ladies care for something to eat? Or drink?” he asked.
“We’re fine,” Isadore said, “except for being exhausted.”
William placed his boot inside the door. He and Thompson crossed the wooden floor and dropped onto sofa cushions flattened by many years of use. “You might be fine now, but I would wager this has been a difficult night for you. Have you ladies been in Shelton long?” He had finally learned the name of this village whose only reason for existence had to be to provide food, drink, and fresh horses for northern-bound travelers.
“We arrived just before you,” Isadore said with a shrug. “We met with a bit of misfortune.”
Good lord! Had highwaymen stolen the bullion? His brows lowered. “What kind of misfortune? You didn't lose the . . . commodity that I seek?”
Her lashes whisked against her cheeks. “No, but we were forced to walk here after . . .”
Dear god, highwaymen had taken the bullion!
“. . . after the gentleman we were riding with tried to take certain liberties.”
Dorothea’s eyes rounded, and she nodded in confirmation.
A lovely woman like Isadore had likely spent many a year fighting off men’s advances. He pitied the sister whose misfortunes were even more cruel when contrasted with her fortunate sibling. “Then you must allow me to escort you ladies to your destination,” he said.
Isadore bestowed a lovely smile upon him. “That would be exceedingly kind of you.”
“Your destination is?” he asked.
“The same place as yours, I believe.”
“London?”
She nodded.
William’s gaze circled the gathering. “I should like to present my valet to you ladies. Thompson is a devilishly handy man to have about.”
Thompson did not meet the ladies’ gazes when he answered. “You mustn’t believe everything Mr. Birmingham says.”
“You’re much too modest,” Isadore told the valet. “You were most resourceful in procuring our rooms.” Then she gave William a knowing smile.
He wished like the devil she wouldn’t smile like that at him. Made it difficult to remember what he was going to say. And there were several matters he had wished to bring up. He cleared his throat. “I feel deuced awkward calling you ladies by your Christian names.”
Isadore gave him a blank stare.
“You are possessed of a surname?” he asked.
She favored him with a fetching smile. “Of course.”
Well? It was too much to hope that her intelligence matched her considerable beauty. “Your surname is?”
“It’s a frightfully silly name, if you must know,” she finally said, flicking her gaze to her mute sister, who nodded.
He eyed them with skepticism. “I cannot believe anything about you ladies could be silly.”
“We’re Doors.”
His brows lowered over suddenly narrowed eyes. Imbeciles more likely.
“Dorothea Door and Isadore Door. You see, I told you our names are silly.”
Their parents were either mentally deficient or possessed of a wicked sense of humor, but a gentleman could hardly give voice to such suspicions. He racked his brain for something complimentary to say. “There’s a certain . . . alliteration about the names.”
“Indeed there is. Our brother is Dorian.”
Dorian Door? Poor fellow. Exceedingly wicked of the parents. Will stood. “We will leave you ladies. Hopefully, you can get a few hours of rest before we push off in the morning.”
Isadore rose. “It’s beastly unfair that we shall lie upon a cozy bed while you gentleman are forced to remain in the taproom.”
“Don’t spare another thought on us. I slept an inordinate amount at my sister’s in the north,” William said, “and am happy to engage in some camaraderie with other men.”
