by JayneFresina
He scowled. "Just answer the damned question." His tone was loud enough now for other people nearby to hear.
Pip felt the blonde woman's gaze reaching over the distance and scraping razor-edged tentacles over her flesh. And she knew he was aware of it too. A little smirk of bitter victory twitched at one corner of his mouth— proof that Master Grumbles played a game with her to get the Ice Queen's attention.
Raising her voice to match his, she exclaimed, "Will you move your damned foot off my gown, sir, or do I have to take it off?" He'd cursed out loud so why shouldn't she? He was a very bad influence, it seemed. Not that she needed any, as her father would say.
"Take which off?" he muttered. "Your gown or my foot?"
"Either."
"I wait keenly to see which you choose, madam. I suppose you have a gun under your garter. I've heard about you lawless revolutionaries, shooting each other's hats off for entertainment."
She smiled with her best attempt at demure sweetness, leaned slightly toward him and dropped an unsteady curtsey. Without taking her gaze from his face, she assured him softly, "I don't have a gun about my person this evening. Alas. But next time I shall, and you can be sure I won't aim it at your foot or your head, despite the tempting enormity of both. For your arrogance and the trick you just played upon me, I'll aim midway between them. Might be a much smaller target, but I do like to show-off my sharp-shooter skills."
His foot was finally withdrawn from the skirt of her ball gown.
"Why thank you, sir," she exclaimed, fluttering her lashes. Leaning closer still, she flipped open her fan and whispered behind it, "I wish you the best of fortune then, Master Damon Deverell. May you not fall down any mine shafts as you stumble through life with those uncaring big feet."
"Hmm?"
"I said, may you not fall—"
As he bowed toward her and she rose up from an awkward curtsey, his breath blew against the side of her cheek and it felt as intimate and improper as a public kiss. She completely forgot what she was saying.
Fan snapped shut again and with the damaged shawl folded over her arm, she hurried up the steps after her disappearing sisters. When she reached the top and looked back, curiosity getting the better of her pride, he remained where she'd left him. Staring up at her, appalled and no longer smug. Perhaps even slightly confused.
He was only lucky she didn't have a gun in her hand after the liberty he'd taken. To let him know this, she angled her fingers like a pistol and pointed at him, one eye closed, pretending to aim and fire.
To her surprise, he stumbled backward, dramatically clutching his chest as if he felt the blast. Not where she would have shot him though. His heart would have been an even smaller target, perhaps, than where she intended to pierce him with her imaginary bullet.
She laughed.
By pretending to be Lord Boxall, he had played her for a fool— that was true—but she hadn't enjoyed a debate quite so much in years. No harm done really. He was lucky she had a thick skin and absolutely no romantic expectations.
Deverell. Where had she heard that name? Why did it echo through her mind in her father's voice?
She stood still and closed her eyes.
"Over the side of the boat he went, and into the dark river. I fired at the fellow as he dove in...thought I clipped him, but I couldn't know for sure. The cheatin' scoundrel would have to swim fast to outpace the alligators lurking in the water, so if I didn't get him, I reckon they did."
It was a story her father had told many times.
"That young man took a fortune off me at the card tables on that riverboat. Others too. Nobody knew where he came from— hell, some folk said— but he was a damn clever villain. Never seen silver eyes like his on any other man. Seemed like they could read me and every thought before I had it, every move before I made it. True Deverell he called himself, but I doubt that was his real name. There was a rumor," and here he would laugh as hard as he could, "that he was really a wolf that taught itself to walk upright, then stole a suit of clothes."
Deverell.
What a strange coincidence, not only that she should meet a man with that same last name, but that he should also have the same untamed presence. Not to mention the eyes of a beautiful, but wild creature. A beast that could eat her whole or nibble her slowly all over, depending upon his hunger that day.
And she wasn't sure which terrible possibility thrilled her more.
Much to her chagrin, she realized now that the feeling she'd mistaken for alarm when she first thought he was Lord Boxall had, in fact, been excitement. Terrible and dangerous excitement that could not possibly do anybody any good. Especially not when she had plans for her future and was supposed to be behaving herself.
Perhaps there was harm done, after all. She shouldn't forgive him that readily for making a fool of her, deceiving her so wickedly. He was clearly the sort of scoundrel who got away with his behavior and she could, reluctantly, see how.
"Who was that?" her aunt wanted to know.
She exhaled a heaving sigh. "Not Bertie Boxall." But the "Unfortunately" she kept to herself.
* * * *
For such a small person she took up a great deal of room, he thought, watching as other folk gave her a wide berth. He should have done the same, of course, and steered his course well clear. Too late.
When he said there was something "wrong" with her, he ought to have said "different". Only now did he realize his mistake, which was odd since he was usually very circumspect with his words, but she had taken him by surprise, forced a reaction out of him before he was prepared. In any case, it was all downhill from that remark.
She was a singular creature. Energy bounced off her in the softly bristling glow of candlelight, so that one could almost hear it humming across her skin. For just a few moments she had lifted his spirits. Now that she was gone he felt slightly... deflated.
Their encounter brought to mind a story his father once told him, of how he met his current wife, Olivia.
"I found her under my feet."
His father liked to make bizarre claims just to raise eyebrows.
I once fought a dragon.
My mother was a mermaid.
When I was a young man, I out swam an alligator.
And when it came to Olivia— I found her under my feet and knew immediately, in some strange way, that I would have her one day. Not then, of course, because she was too young and innocent still and I had yet to corrupt her. But my name was already carved inside that woman and I felt it there, as if I could rub my finger over it and trace the words.
Damon Deverell stared after the disappearing figure and suffered a stark premonition, a jolt worse than the slap of his father's hand against the back of his head for being pert or disrespectful. He knew, in that moment, that however the American came to be under his feet, she would— against her will and his— become a significant part of his life. He felt his name in her, the same way his father once felt his own marked inside a woman.
"Englishmen are tremendously boring," she'd said.
Boring, indeed! She might think she knew Englishmen, but she didn't know him.
For some reason, of all her insults, that one struck hardest.
In the corner of his eye, he saw a man in evening suit conferring with a liveried servant and pointing his way. Rather than wait for an escort out, he turned and made his own way down the steps, his stride easy and unhurried.
He heard someone mutter, "Who the devil is that?"
Another faceless voice answered, "That is the devil. Or the devil's son, at least."
"Looks like he bloody-well owns the place."
"No doubt he could. If he wanted."
Damon smirked as he strode onward.
"There is nothing those Deverell boys can't have, once they decide it's theirs."
Yes, he'd heard that many times.
The sons of True Deverell had been raised to view London as their own town, their hunting ground, their territory. Although their father was not we
lcomed among the upper classes, he had — like a wolf among sheep— terrified their exalted ranks, stirred up enough havoc to scatter the flock and made his mark among them, indelible as a bloodstain.
People in this society did not like outsiders.
Is that why Damon felt an immediate connection with that young woman? She didn't fit in there any better than he did.
How in the world did Miss Piper, of the astonishing violet eyes and "very efficient right hook", come to be there, under his feet, masquerading as his once-imaginary friend— that naughty tomboy "Nonesuch", disturbingly, and rather lusciously, all grown up. Not that he could be interested, of course. He had enough to manage with his current lover, Lady Elizabeth Stanbury, and sometimes he didn't even know how he'd come to be embroiled in that affair.
Well, yes he did— a mixture of ennui and restiveness after a self-imposed three-year fast. He just liked to pretend he didn't know how it had happened, as if it was nothing, really, to do with him. As if he had not pursued her for the pleasure of the challenge and the profound satisfaction of claiming a woman who thought herself so superior to a Deverell.
As Damon stepped into the street, he saw a face he recognized— a fellow with whom he once shared a Latin tutor at university. He stopped to offer a word of warning. "Ah, Boxall, you're late! There is the most rabidly eager young chit looking for you in there. Apparently she's been promised an introduction by your godmother."
"Oh, lord, not another one." The indolent young man rolled his eyes and slouched against the railings. "What's she look like?"
"Well...I'd rather not say." He made his face grim. "But appearances aren't everything, are they? Look on the bright side. She's exceedingly keen and so, I believe, is her chaperone. To be rid of her." With one hand he patted the other fellow's shoulder in a comforting fashion and followed it up with the final crushing statement familiar to all young men. "I'm sure she has a lovely personality."
It was all he need say. Boxall turned on his heel and stumbled back the way he'd travelled, possibly to the nearest tavern.
Really, Damon mused, he was becoming quite the doer of good deeds. He just wasn't sure for whom he did this one.
Chapter Five
Boston, Massachusetts
One year earlier, May 1849
"Spirited? Spirited?" Mrs. H. Thaxton-Choate, who was every bit as sharp-edged, thorny and unromantic as her name, sat ramrod straight, only her right eyebrow showing any sign of flexibility, and even that in one point and one angle alone. "Your daughter is just plain wild, Mr. Piper. She's entirely unsuited for the sophisticated ballrooms of New England. I cannot say for certain where she belongs, but I can assure you it was a mistake to bring her north."
And Mr. Prospero "Smokey" Piper, who was just as extraordinary, unconventional and unforgettable as his name, hitched to the edge of his seat. "Come now, my Pip's a unique young lady, and I don't deny it. She's an original. When they made her they broke the mold."
"With good reason."
"She can't be that hopeless, Ma'am. Can't you teach her what's right— a fine, tight-stitched, dignified lady like yourself? Don't look like much could squeeze by you and not have some of that high class varnish smeared off on it. Surely those fancy manners are like horse sweat and hound dog; a man can't be rid of the stink once he's rubbed up against plenty of it."
Her eyes took on the hollow stare of a cadaver. One that suddenly awoke to find itself abandoned in a morgue reserved for undesirables and the unclaimed. "It seems there has been some misunderstanding, Mr. Piper. I chaperone young ladies in society and make introductions that can lead to marriage. Advantageous, mutually beneficial marriage. I don't herd wildebeest across the prairie."
"Perhaps it's costing you a little more to put her out and about, because she ain't a natural beauty. Is that it? Well, I've no objection to sweetening the pie if necessary, ma'am. I want the best for my daughters, and I'm willing to pay. What's your price? Don't be afraid to name it."
Her voice became very tight, squeezed out from some withered, desolate place inside her narrow frame. "I'm afraid no amount of money can help your daughter find a suitable husband here. Not now that she's shown her unladylike temper in public." Finally, and with supreme reluctance, her dead gaze drifted left to observe the subject of their discourse.
Epiphany quickly switched her full attention to the antics of a particularly lively wasp, which she'd observed for some time in her peripheral vision. It must have come into the parlor along with the vase of sickly sweet lilacs that perched on the console table behind the stern frills of Mrs. Thaxton-Choate's day cap. Yes, even that woman's frills were stern. To Pip's amusement, the adventurous wasp periodically enjoyed a thorough examination of those neatly pressed, white linen ruffles, between dancing in and out of the lilacs, or hovering over that prim shoulder, where it must have located the remnants of breakfast marmalade, left there by an impatient brush of the lady's hand.
Pip had promised her father to let him do the talking, and she always kept her promises. Or tried. On this occasion, she managed by the skin of her grinding teeth, until Mrs. Thaxton-Choate added, "And I fear Miss Epiphany's little display of unseemly fervor yesterday evening will severely curtail her sisters' options too."
That was the final straw. Pip bounced to her feet in another example of that very same unseemly fervor.
"Punish me, if you please. I never wanted to be a part of this cattle auction. Everybody here is so busy pretending to be something they're not, that there is no integrity, no sincerity, no kindness! It's all shallow, stupid, self-absorbed and meaningless, and I'd rather be anywhere else. But my sisters did nothing to deserve your recriminations. They should not suffer."
"A pretty speech indeed, Miss Epiphany," came the sharp reply, bony hands knitted primly together in her lap. "So charitable and self-sacrificing. Sadly, your behavior last night did not reflect the same worthy values. Your dear sisters are stained by association, and you should have thought of that. In fact, you should have thought— of anything— before you acted in such a shameful manner."
"Madam, I defended myself and my family. And I would do it again, if necessary. I refuse to stand quietly by while some oily tick insults us."
Pip suddenly felt her father's hand around her elbow, tugging her back down onto the settee beside him. His voice remained calm, smooth and slow as a swinging hammock on a warm summer evening. "If this is about that skinny young feller's black eye, Pip said she's sorry. Now, surely, we can settle that business."
No response, just that corpse glare and a further stiffening of her rigor mortis.
"Tell you what, ma'am," he added in a conspiratory tone, leaning forward, "we'll let him take a swing at Pip in return and then he'll feel better about it, eh?" No sooner had the last word left his mouth than his lips curved in one of his most charming smiles. Epiphany's father had quite a repertoire of these smiles, all cheekily effective at chiseling their way into hearts and pockets.
None, however, chipped any stone off that proud edifice known as Mrs. H. Thaxton-Choate. "That skinny young feller," she repeated crisply, "happens to be a Delaware Moffat."
"Well, fancy that." That slightly crooked smile his daughter loved so much widened further as he sat back in his chair. "And we're the Louisiana Pipers."
"Are you suggesting that Mr. Ernest Moffat should be allowed to punch your daughter in return for his black eye?"
"I've seen the slight feller. He won't do any damage. Pip can take care of herself, but he can give it a try if he feels inclined to let off some steam."
The woman's eyes gleamed with vitriol. "Mr. Piper, I see it's a challenge for you to take this matter seriously. As it is, apparently, for your daughter too. But you must understand, there is an order to be kept here among society's elite, a pyramid of reverence to which we must adhere at all times. The Moffat family is highly regarded, and your daughter—"
"Their money came from gunpowder, didn't it? Ain't that much different to how I got my start as
a boy. Lot of explosions came along with that too, in the still, behind the outhouse. One blast took out my grandmother's last tooth and blew her best patchwork drawers clear across the creek." He winked. "But our family's gunpowder comes in a bottle."
"I daresay it's taken just as many men to hell."
He laughed. "Quite frankly, ma'am, if I had to choose either way to die, I'd sooner go with Ol' Smokey Piper's Best Bourbon, wouldn't you?"
"I never touch the demon drink."
He kept his smile, muttering through his teeth, "I might have guessed."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Piper?"
"It's a pity you don't try a sip, ma'am. A little bit o' the demon serves a purpose, I reckon. After all, there wouldn't be no angels without demons, would there?"
"And how do you reach that conclusion?"
"Life is all about balance, ain't it?"
"It's all about what's right and proper, Mr. Piper."
"You mean to say, what's right in your opinion."
The eyebrow peaked again and the wasp, which had just landed upon her shoulder, took off vertically as if it felt the vibrations of her anger. "In this case, my opinion is the only one that matters. I cannot provide further introductions for your daughter. Nothing can be made of the girl. Her despicable behavior is giving me and my service a bad name."
Pip looked at her father and sighed. "I told you, pa. It doesn't matter that I apologized, even though Ernest Moffat is a lazy, no good, lug-legged loafer. He being an alleged eligible bachelor, I'm supposed to let him treat me like a fresh-killed skunk carcass on a hot day and not say a word about it. Least of all, give him what he deserved. Heaven forbid."
Mrs. Thaxton-Choate, a near omnipresent force in New York, Boston and Philadelphia— according to her curt, white calling cards— blinked just once, and it was almost possible to hear the tiny blue veins in her eyelids crackling under the weary strain. "Mr. Piper, I fear your daughter's schooling did her a disservice. Of all the books she's read, it seems she overlooked The Art of Good Behavior. I heartily recommend you find her a copy."
