by Cheryl Bolen
She sighed. “It’s not that I’m actually greatly improved. It’s rather that I was possessed of a vast need to leave the confines of my bedchamber.”
He was unable to suppress a chuckle as he slid into his chair at the head of the table. “Forgive me if I fail to extend sympathies. You can’t have been too bored. I understand you entertained a gentleman caller in your bedchamber today, did you not?” William was certain the man was up to no good.
“Not actually in my bedchamber. I spent the day on the settee in the adjacent sitting room. That’s where I spoke to the gentleman.”
His eyes were hard when he spoke. “So is he the one who’s got our bullion?” There! It was out. No more ambiguity.
She did not respond for a moment. “What would make you think that, Mr. Birmingham?”
“You must be anxious to conclude our exchange and get back to your . . . home.” It suddenly occurred to him that she might have lied to him about being a maiden. Perhaps she was a married woman. Was today’s caller her husband?
Why did the idea cause his stomach to roil?
“The way I feel at present, I’m not up to the journey home.”
He was not about to express sympathy. “And where would that home be?”
She hesitated before answering. “You must understand that a woman in my position is not at liberty to reveal such details.”
“Speaking of a woman in your position, you did not answer my question about your gentleman caller.”
She shook her head. “He no longer has the bullion.”
“But he told you where it is?”
“Certainly. But I cannot tell you where it is at present.”
“Not until you receive your eighty thousand guineas.”
Her huge dark eyes rounded for a split second. “When can I expect my payment?”
“I have it now.”
She turned to her sister and placed a trembling hand on that lady’s forearm. “Pray, dearest, I feel a relapse coming on. I know I shouldn’t have come down those stairs. It was too much for me.” With each spoken word, her voice had faded a little more until her last words were barely audible.
Both ladies rose, the lovely one clinging to the thinner one. Isadore turned to him and spoke in a faint voice. “Forgive me, but I must take my leave. I fear I may collapse.”
He jumped up. “Pray, allow me to assist.” With that, he proceeded to pluck her up into his arms as if she were a small child.
Though he was a strong man, by the time he’d mounted two flights of stairs carrying her, he had difficulty catching his breath. The sister opened Isadore’s chamber door, and he carried her to the bed and tossed her upon it.
He was not convinced she was truly sick. It almost seemed as if she were pretending to be sick in order to keep from having to produce the bullion. Had she lost it? Sold it to another? No, otherwise she’d not have been awaiting him at the Prickly Pig Inn. But why in the devil did she wish to prolong her stay here at Grosvenor Square?
* * *
Once Sophia was assured that Mr. Birmingham had departed her chamber and returned to the dinner room, her voice was restored with remarkable clarity. “Oh, Dottie, I have so gotten myself into a pickle!”
“I don't call getting eighty thousand guineas a pickle. Sounds like a dream come true to me.”
“You forget the eighty thousand is for Isadore.”
“But I thought you was Isadore.”
“I most certainly am not. You've known me all my life. I'm Sophia Beresford.”
Dottie shook her head. “Not no more. Yer Sophia Finkel.”
In exaggerated fashion, Sophia closed her eyes and groaned. “Pray, do not remind me.”
“At least you now know why he wanted Isadore.”
“Yes. For the bullion. It seems the source of our dear Mr. Birmingham's wealth is gold smuggling.”
“Leastways he ain't a killer or something truly vile.”
“There is that,” Sophia said with resignation.
“I think he's getting impatient to get his hands on the bullion.”
“I daresay you're right. What am I to do?”
“I don't see why you can't return to Devere House.”
“Because I have a strong conviction that Lord Finkel's men will know when I arrive, and their master will force me to return to him. Right now, the law is on his side. Devere would have no choice but to allow Finkie to take me away.”
“I can't believe dear Lord Devere would allow that.”
“Do you not recall the heartbreaking story of Lady Wapping's disastrous marriage? I was only a child at the time, but it is still being talked about.”
Dottie shook her head. “I don't have privy to all the tales of the ton.”
Sophia drew a deep breath. “Lady Wapping's beauty had accounted for her vastly successful come-out. She was widely courted, but gave her heart to Lord Wapping.” Sophia sighed again. “On the night of her marriage, Lord Wapping—for reasons no one has ever been able to ascertain—beat her soundly. As soon as she could, she stole away back to her parents. Her head was bashed, an arm was broken, and she was bruised all over.”
Dottie winced. “They ought to have hung the man!”
“I agree, but no justice was ever served. Lord Wapping went to collect her at her father's. Her father said he would not permit his daughter to return to the beast. Lord Wapping countered by saying the lady was his property, and the laws of England would uphold his right to get her back. The father said the laws did not apply to men capable of such horrid violence—to which Wapping replied that a husband had the right of punishing a wife who was not compliant.”
Dottie's brows lowered. “She didn't want to bed her husband?”
Sophia shrugged. “The lady said she was compliant.”
“Then her husband must have been a sex maniac.”
“Obviously, he was not normal. The pity of it was that the courts eventually ruled that her husband had the right to take his wife away from her father, and he had the right to beat his wife if he wanted—provided it wasn't excessive. Which I understand to mean as long as he doesn't kill her.”
“It must have been powerful hard for her papa to let her return to the beast.”
Sophia nodded. “He had to be restrained. But not for long. He killed Lord Wapping rather than allow the fiend to hurt his daughter, and the poor father was hanged for the killing.”
Dottie's eyes swelled with tears. “Oh, milady! That could be you! Why did you ever marry that horrid man?”
“I had my reasons.” There had to be some other way to save Maryann’s reputation. It was such a relief to share her dread with Devere. Surely he could resolve Maryann’s problem.
“Is Lord Devere going to see if there’s some way he can get ye out of that marriage?”
“He was to go directly to his solicitor when he left here.” She kept thinking about Lady Wapping.
“I do hope yer brother will succeed.”
“As if this difficulty with my . . . marriage wasn’t horrid enough, now I’ve gotten myself involved in smuggling gold.”
“Not you. Isadore.”
Sophia glowered at her maid.
Dottie sighed. “Whatever will you do?”
“I have no idea. That’s why I had to pretend I was gravely ill. I had to get away from Mr. Birmingham and form a plan.” She eyed her maid. “You know how beastly inept I am at thinking on the fly.”
“The fact is, milady, you’re beastly inept at choosing husbands too!”
“You needn’t remind me. I regret it every second of the day.”
Dottie screwed up her face in thought. “I don’t suppose ye’ve got any gold bullion?”
Sophia scowled. “What do you think?”
“I guess that would be the real Isadore. A pity you can’t find her.”
“Hmmm. That’s actually a very good idea, Dottie.”
“But ye can’t find her if yer laid up like an invalid.”
“True. But . . . it�
�s now obvious to me that Mr. Birmingham had been told that a woman named Isadore who possessed the bullion would be contacting him. That would explain why when I approached him at the Prickly Pig Inn he immediately thought I was Isadore. I believe that Mr. Birmingham might also have thought that thieves interested in the gold—and not Finkie’s hired hands—were the men trying to abduct me the following morning.”
Dottie nodded.
“So it stands to reason the real Isadore will be trying to make contact with Mr. Birmingham.”
“She could come knocking upon his door this very minute!”
“A very good point! Thank goodness my chamber faces Grosvenor Square. I’ll just push my settee up to the window and keep a vigil. It’s imperative I intercept her before she speaks to Mr. Birmingham.”
“If you could get the eighty thousand from Mr. Birmingham, you could buy the bullion from her.”
“Exactly!”
“But how long must you pretend to be dreadful sick?”
“As long as it takes.”
“I know how much you hate staying indoors, how much you thrive on being around all yer friends and family.”
“I will own, it is most difficult.”
Dottie eyed her askance. “Did it seem to you that Mr. Birmingham was a bit out of charity with you tonight?”
“Indeed, it did.”
“I’d wager he’s angry because you 'ad a gentleman caller. Jealous, he is, mark me words.”
“But the gentleman caller was my brother!”
“Mr. Birmingham don’t know that!”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t be jealous. It’s not as if he’s ever given me the slightest indication that he’s interested in me in that way.”
“In the way yer interested in him?”
Sophia nodded ruefully.
“You said you would listen to Dottie after yer fiasco with Lord Finkel. I’m always right about men.”
“Oh, Dottie, how I wish you could be right about this!”
“I’ll say it again. I can see how you feel about the ’andsome Mr. Birmingham. I say you ought to let him ruin you. Surely Lord Finkel wouldn’t want spoiled goods.”
“I wouldn’t have any idea how one would go about getting ruined, how I could possibly seduce the handsome gentleman.” There was great merit in what Dottie suggested. Meeting Mr. Birmingham had a remarkable effect upon her. Almost overnight she’d gone from disliking a man’s kisses to hungering for a certain man’s kisses—and more.
“Why don’t ye get yerself all pretty, and I’ll take a note to Mr. Birmingham begging that he come read to me melancholy sister? That should mellow him. Ye know how gentle like he was with you last night.”
“I can’t write such a note. I’d look like a strumpet!”
“But I can write it, saying as how concerned I am for me sister.”
Sophia heaved a huge sigh. “First could you return to the dinner room? I cannot tell you how hungry I am. I should like you to bring me something.”
“Leave it to Dottie.”
* * *
His plans to see Diane tonight were abandoned as soon as the poor mute delivered him her scribbled letter, urging him to come read to her melancholy sister. As out of charity as he was with Isadore, he was powerless to resist jumping to her every whim.
It was he—and not her sister—who carried the supposedly infirm lady a plate of food. He softly knocked upon her door, and when he entered, he nearly lost his breath at the sight of her semi-reclining on the settee, a vision in frothy white lace. Her pretty face brightened when she looked up and saw him.
He was not unaffected by her. Much to his chagrin.
“You must be hungry,” he said, his voice tender. “I’ve brought you some food your sister picked out.”
She sat up straighter and spoke in a feeble voice. “It probably would do me good to eat. I feel so very weak.”
He set the plate on the tea table near her settee.
She took the fork he’d brought, stabbed at the veal, and ate it most appreciatively. “I confess, I was hungry. How very kind of you to bring this to me. Pray, won’t you take a seat?”
He sat next to her on the settee.
“Where is my sister?”
“She was apparently very hungry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so thin a person stack a plate so very high with food. I would be surprised if she cleaned the plate in under a half hour.”
Isadore giggled. “My sister is possessed of a hearty appetite.” Then the lady launched into a coughing fit. It was more an asthmatic cough than one productive of mucus or—heaven forbid, the spitting of blood associated with consumption.
When she finished coughing, her attention returned to her plate. It seemed the two sisters shared a healthy appetite. He was unable to remove his gaze from her loveliness. She was just as pretty in profile as she was from the front. He tried to analyze just what it was about her that was so beautiful. She was in possession of dark lashes that were impossibly long, but there were so many more components to her beauty. In the firelight, her skin looked as smooth and fair as polished ivory. Her nose was perfection, as was her graceful neck. His gaze moved to the sweet swell of her bosom, and he drew in his breath. Then averted his gaze.
He wished to God he hadn’t given his word not to seduce her. He’d never wanted to kiss anyone as he wanted to kiss Isadore at this moment.
He went to the table in her room where a decanter of port reposed, and he poured each of them a glass. When she finished eating, she took up her glass, then turned her full attention to him. Their eyes met and held. Even though hers were nearly as dark as coal, they were uncommonly expressive. Solemn.
She clinked her glass to his. “To a successful completion to our partnership.”
She drank. He drank. Few words passed between them. Soon he was bringing the whole bottle to the tea table, and they drank every last drop of it.
He wondered if she was not accustomed to spirits, for it had such a mellowing effect upon her. She began to stroke the planes of his face whilst speaking tenderly. “I do believe I owe my life to you, my dear Mr. Birmingham.”
His ability to remain a perfect gentleman began to wane. He found himself lifting her hand and pressing soft lips into her palm. He grew excited by the sharp intake of her breath. Then, if he wasn’t mistaken, she began to purr almost like a feline. She settled her head upon his shoulder, and his arm came around her.
“I am regretting that ridiculous promise I made to you,” he said, his voice husky.
Her head came off his shoulders, her eyes fixed on his. “About not trying to seduce me?”
“That too, but right now I'm longing to kiss you.”
* * *
It was as if her heart exploded. His words shattered any self control she had possessed. She inched closer to him, so close that she could feel his breath and smell his sandalwood scent. For the first time in her seven-and-twenty years, she found herself lifting her face to welcome a man's kiss.
But this was not just any man. This was the man she'd been seeking for the past decade and had come to believe did not exist. But exist he did. She could weep for the want of him.
Their lips came together with urgency. Neither of them could control this raging need to touch, to taste, to feel possessed. She stiffened when their mouths opened to one another, but any resistance was short lived beneath the intoxicating pleasure of this magical blending. What repulsed with any other man thrilled when initiated by . . . William. William Birmingham. His very name accelerated her pulse.
She did not want the kiss to ever end. Her fuzzy, spiraling thoughts had her envisioning William climbing inside her. She was overcome with a need to feel him inside of her.
He began to trace a trail of wet kisses along the column of her neck, to the gap where her lace dressing gown came together. He flicked the lace aside to reveal her bare breasts.
He groaned, and she became even more aroused. When his mouth closed over a nipple, she was certain the very
breath had been sucked from her. Her lower torso began to squirm, then to pulse toward him.
He suddenly drew away, his gaze lovingly lingering on her exposed breasts as he tenderly recovered them with the lace dressing gown. “Forgive me,” he said in a throaty voice. “I got carried away. I forgot you were ill.”
She felt like one drugged on laudanum. “I have a confession.”
His green eyes shimmered with mirth. “You're not really ill?”
She nodded. “I would have said or done anything that would ensure I could stay here with you.” Her hand cupped his cheek again. “From the moment you came into my life I . . . have been strongly attracted to you.”
He sighed. “You aren't making this easy for me, Isadore. I cannot convey to you how badly I want to make love to you, but I did give you my word.”
“I absolve you of making any false promises.”
He kissed her cheek. “It's not that easy. There's the fact you're a maiden. I don't fancy debauching an innocent.”
“Even if that innocent wants you to more than she's ever wanted anything?” Her voice had gone faint again.
* * *
As he wanted her. More than he'd ever wanted any woman. When she'd told him of her attraction, he'd felt an elation like nothing he'd ever known. He felt as if he could leap over Westminster Abbey.
His own attraction to her was so much more than this aching, physical need. Her beauty, her intelligence, her compassion for her afflicted sister, her taste in poetry, all these attributes elevated her far above all the women he'd ever known.
And now this supreme sexual compatibility. She's THE one.
He went to heave a sigh, but he was so aroused, his sigh sputtered. Then he hauled her into his arms and greedily kissed her.
“Then, my dearest Isadore, I hope you'll never regret this night of lovemaking.”
Chapter 7
When she awakened the following morning, a deep sense of well-being suffused her. A bird's chirp outside her window seemed to reverberate into her very soul, as if her heart were singing. Last night had been the most wonderful night of her life. William was her destiny.
