Heart's Delight

by Cheryl Holt

  “All right.”

  “Once I’m back, I’ll expect you to describe the color of her drawers.”

  “I’m giving her a donation!” Michael said again.

  “Donate a bit for me, would you?”

  Ramsey rounded the corner and disappeared.

  Michael dismounted, and a dozen boys rushed up, begging to watch his horse while he was inside. He knew most of them by name, and he motioned to three of the shyest ones, trying to spread around the coins he’d toss to them later when he departed.

  The door was open, with her not bothering to lock it, but then she probably didn’t need much security. What was there to steal?

  He entered the main room. It was empty and Miss Wells nowhere in sight. There were several long tables set in rows, and through a doorway beyond he could see a kitchen, but it was quiet, the lull in the afternoon when nothing much occurred.

  Previously, he’d heard rumors about her operation, and he’d asked about her and found out more.

  She served two meals a day, breakfast and supper, to anyone who was hungry. In the mornings, after breakfast, she ran a school that any child could attend. On Sundays, a pastor stopped by to conduct a prayer service, but other than that short ministry there wasn’t much religious fervor attached to her activities.

  If she had no spiritual leanings to spur her on, what kept her motivated and inspired? Especially after the Vicar and Mrs. Sterns had passed away, it couldn’t have been easy to continue, and she was a woman on her own with no male to offer guidance. How did she manage?

  When he caught himself obsessing over her, he rolled his eyes and shook away his fixation. There was no reason to be fascinated by her, but apparently he was.

  She lived in an apartment upstairs and had a few helpers, volunteers who’d been rescued by Vicar Sterns. None of them were present to welcome him or shoo him away.

  He strutted in as if he owned the place, but he was curious about the proprietor. Miss Wells didn’t appear to have two pennies to rub together, so he doubted the building belonged to her. Maybe he would approach the owner and buy it. The notion of being her landlord, of having some authority and control over her, was vastly amusing.

  There was a rickety staircase in the back that led up to the second floor, and he went over and climbed. He walked down a narrow hall, peeking into clean, sparse rooms that were like cells for a group of monks. Only the door at the end was closed.

  He spun the knob and looked into a parlor, noting immediately that it was her private quarters. Dilapidated furniture was neatly arranged, and an effort had been made to create a comfortable and homey abode. There were rugs scattered, doilies on the tables, curtains on the windows.

  But it was a far step down from the opulence of Cliffside, and he wondered how her pride had stood the descent to the lower rungs of society. Gaylord Farrow had jilted her and broken her heart, so Michael comprehended why she’d fled her home, but on viewing the dire condition of her situation, he certainly questioned whether her father had ever visited.

  What man would have let his daughter stay in such a dreary establishment?

  A bedchamber was located behind the parlor, and he could hear her in there humming to herself, and it sounded as if she was washing. Water splashed in a bowl.

  On realizing he was about to be with her again, he suffered such a thrill that he was alarmed by it. What was wrong with him?

  He turned the key in the lock, and as he stuck it in his pocket, he grinned. Would this become their typical mode of interacting? He’d bluster in without warning, she’d scold and order him out, but he wouldn’t leave until he felt like it.

  He sauntered over and leaned against the door jam, and her back was to him, so he had a moment to watch her before she figured out he’d arrived.

  Her glorious auburn hair was down, and it hung to her waist in a curly wave. It was such a stunning shade, red but with strands of gold and mahogany woven through as well. He’d never seen hair like it, and he thought of her sisters, with their plain brunette hair. In comparison, she looked like a goddess.

  Gaylord Farrow could have had her, but he’d chosen tepid Pamela instead, which only underscored Michael’s opinion that Farrow was an idiot.

  To his eternal delight, Miss Wells was stripped down to chemise and petticoat, her feet and arms bare, her corset tossed on a nearby chair. The garments were functional, faded from many launderings, but nevertheless she was sexy as hell.

  She was standing by her dresser, dipping a cloth in a bowl of water and smoothing it over her face and shoulders.

  “Nan, is that you?” she asked. “Could you help me pin up my hair? It’s rioting today, and I can’t manage it on my own.”

  She glanced over, expecting someone named Nan, and when she saw him she gasped with astonishment. Thankfully she didn’t scream bloody murder, but she scrutinized him as if trying to determine if he was an apparition or if he was actually in her bedchamber.

  Unfortunately for her, he was all too real.

  “Mr. Scott!” she snapped. “What are you doing here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I could have sworn at Cliffside I told you not to visit.”

  “Did you? I must have forgotten.”

  “You can’t just barge in.”

  “I already have. You should lock your door.”

  He pulled out her key and held it up.

  “I’m trapped with you again?”

  “Yes, until I decide to let you out.”

  There was a knitted throw on the bed, and she reached for it and wrapped it around her torso as if it was a large towel. While it concealed her a bit, it was knitted, so it didn’t provide anywhere near the coverage she was hoping.

  “As you can see,” she fumed, “I’m in no condition to receive you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Well, I do. Please go.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t oblige you.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “You keep ignoring one very important fact about me.”

  “What is that?”

  “I never listen to women, remember?”

  “I dare say you never listen to anyone, but this isn’t funny. I’m not dressed and you can’t be in here.”

  He walked toward her, and with each step he was inundated by a strange sense of destiny. If he’d tried to turn and leave, he couldn’t have. Fate seemed to be holding him in place, as if he’d finally arrived right where he belonged.

  As to Miss Wells, it was clear from her exasperated expression that she wasn’t sensing the dubious hand of Fate. No, she was gaping at him as if a lunatic had entered and was about to commit unspeakable acts.

  She wasn’t too far off. He’d always deemed himself to be quite insane. When he considered the chances he’d taken in his life, the risks he’d assumed, it was obvious that only a deranged person would have behaved so recklessly.

  And as to unspeakable acts…

  He’d definitely like to commit several. What was his plan? What did he intend? How badly did he want her?

  He approached until his body touched hers, the rough edges of the knitted throw scratching against his clothes.

  That invigorating energy flared, the one he always perceived when he was close to her. He felt half-crazed with desire, but she was a spinster, and he hated innocent women. He liked women who knew what they were about in the bedchamber, who knew what he preferred so he didn’t have to waste any effort getting it from them.

  If he pressed her into a tryst, he’d have to do all the work and would be annoyed when he was finished. So…why was he titillated? His aroused state was ridiculous, but she stirred him as no female ever had, and there was no possible solution but to forge ahead.

  He drew her into his arms and dipped down to nibble at her nape.

  “You smell good,” he murmured.

  “Mr. Scott!”

  Her bed was next to them, and he lifted her and tumbled them onto the mattress. She didn’t cry
out with alarm, didn’t try to squirm away. If anything, she appeared even more exasperated.

  “Are you about to ravish me?” she asked.

  “No, I never would.”

  “Then explain yourself, for I must tell you that you’re making me very afraid.”

  “You’re not afraid of me,” he scoffed.

  “No, but I’m afraid of what you might do.”

  So am I!

  “If I see something I crave, I take it,” he said. “I’m not the type to sit around in fussy parlors, drinking tea, and fretting over what I’d like to have.”

  “I realize that about you, but I am not the kind of woman to dawdle on a mattress with any man, let alone a man I barely know.”

  “I think you know me quite well.”

  “Why? Because I’ve figured out that you’re an unrepentant rogue and criminal?”

  “Yes.”

  He grinned, and she rolled her eyes in frustration.

  “Let me up.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “If we’re at the point where you’re uttering one-word replies, it’s futile to argue with you.”

  “It’s always futile, so you’re finally learning that I always get my way. There are few people who have the stamina to battle my stubbornness, and you certainly don’t. Give over and give me what I want.”

  “What is it you want? I’ve fascinated you, but I have no idea why.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  She gazed up at him, looking perplexed and confused and very, very pretty.

  Was she aware of her beauty? Had any man ever told her? Gaylord Farrow should have flattered her to the moon and back, but no doubt, he’d never voiced a single glowing comment.

  Michael wasn’t the sort prone to romantic declarations, but suddenly he was desperate to shower her with praise. Yet she didn’t like to flirt and didn’t like compliments. With her having such odd female proclivities, how could he make her feel special?

  He wouldn’t waste time talking. He was a man of action, not words, and he was clearer when he used his body and hands to clarify his position. He kissed her, and there was such sweet relief in the embrace that he was glad he was lying down. If he’d been standing, his knees might have buckled. He was that besotted.

  “Mr. Scott,” she scolded as he drew away.

  “Call me Michael.”

  “No.”

  “Miss Wells, let’s review what you know about me.”

  “You always get your way.”

  “Yes, so you might as well call me Michael. I won’t stop pestering you until you agree.”

  “We’re barely acquainted, and you’re pressuring me horridly.”

  “How am I pressuring you? We’re just chatting.”

  “On my bed, when I’m not wearing any clothes.”

  “Tell me to leave and I will.”

  “Leave.”

  “No.”

  She laughed a full, but miserable laugh.

  “What am I to do with you?” she inquired.

  “Call me Michael, and we’ll proceed from there.”

  “Fine, Michael, let it be as you wish. There will be no formality between us. From here on out, we’ll carry on as if we’ve known each other for decades. You’ve insisted, and I can’t seem to go against you.”

  “Good. Now then, your name is Magdalena, but your sisters call you Maggie. Which shall it be for me?”

  “You’re not using my given name.”

  “I’m not? Let’s review. I always get my—”

  “All right, all right,” she huffed. “You may call me Maggie—when we’re alone. If I have the misfortune to encounter you out in public, I am Miss Wells to you.”

  He considered, then grinned again. “Perhaps.”

  “If you’re not careful, I’ll have to demand you marry me.”

  He scowled. “What?”

  “When two people misbehave as we are, matrimony is the penalty they pay.”

  “We’re not misbehaving—not in my world anyway.”

  “Well, in my world you’re one step away from being dragged to the altar.”

  “I’m not exactly the marrying kind,” he lied. In fact, he’d just heard from Lord Stone that Stone had decided to save himself by sacrificing his daughter, Felicia.

  “Every bachelor claims he’ll never wed,” she said.

  “But I mean it.”

  “I’m sure you do, but if you commit a carnal lapse with me, you’ll quickly find yourself fettered. You’d hate for that to happen, wouldn’t you?”

  “Who could make me wed you? Your silly, trembling sister? Your idiotic brother-in-law? Somehow I can’t picture you asking him to help you.”

  “I could make you,” she said. “I would rail at you until you relented.”

  “We’ve already established that I never listen to women.”

  “If the threat of marriage can’t deter you from mischief, what will?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Haven’t you a trollop who could entertain you this afternoon?”

  “Dozens of them.”

  “Yet you’re forcing me to be the one.”

  “Yes. Aren’t you lucky?”

  She flashed a stern frown. “I don’t want this from you.”

  “You just think you don’t. You’re still a maiden, so you don’t know what you need.”

  “I’m pretty sure I don’t need you bothering me.”

  “What if you’re wrong? What if I turn out to be precisely what you require?”

  “Only a man as vain as yourself would suppose you could be the answer to a woman’s prayers.”

  “Let me show you something.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “You’ll like it. I promise.”

  In his opinion she spent entirely too much time talking, so he kissed her again, more passionately, and for all her protesting she didn’t attempt to stop him. Apparently she’d enjoyed their previous romantic foray as much as he had.

  He kept on for what seemed like forever, and gradually she relaxed and joined in, her arms slipping around his neck to pull him close. The knitted throw had come loose, so there was little separating them. The fabric on her chemise was so thin and faded, she might not have been wearing any clothes at all.

  He placed a hand on her breast, and he kneaded it, caressing the soft mound, feeling the taut nipple pressed to his palm.

  Without a doubt he’d pushed her much farther than she’d intended, but he couldn’t desist. He was so happy when he was with her and didn’t want the sense of contentment to ever abate.

  He slid his fingers under her chemise, but she clasped his wrist and yanked him away. Their lips parted, their riveting kiss ending, and he couldn’t believe how he regretted its concluding.

  “You are so wicked,” she said, but she was smiling.

  “I try to be.”

  “And very dangerous to my equilibrium. You make me eager to misbehave.”

  “Didn’t I tell you I’d turn out to be just what you need the most? Besides, you’re too old to be a maid. You should lie down with me more often. There are all kinds of pleasurable activities I could teach you.”

  “No, thank you. I think I’ll hold on to my chastity—if that’s all right with you.”

  “It’s not all right.”

  “Well, it’s all right with me, and that’s what matters.”

  He could have mentioned that his wishes were always paramount, that the world rotated in his direction, but he didn’t, for he wouldn’t wreck the moment with bickering.

  Their banter dwindled and they were nose to nose, gaping like halfwits, with him still stretched out on top of her. He knew he had to depart, but couldn’t leave.

  She glanced over to the window and saw the shadows lengthening, the afternoon waning.

  “I have to get downstairs,” she said, “to check on the preparations for supper.”

  “In a
minute.”

  “Rumors will spread that I’m growing lazy.”

  “I’ll beat any man who says so.”

  “You will not,” she scoffed.

  “I might—if you asked me to.”

  “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  “You don’t even lock your door.”

  “I never had to until you stumbled into my life.”

  He raised a brow. “If I recall correctly, you stumbled into mine. I was minding my own business when you blustered into my office.”

  “I guess you could describe it that way.”

  “I could and I have. If you’re upset over my heightened interest you have only yourself to blame for it.”

  “I suppose.” She sighed. “Will you be popping in all the time now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I can’t figure out what’s happening with us.”

  “Must you figure it out?”

  “In light of my history I’ve sworn off men, and even if I hadn’t, you’re the very last sort I’d welcome as a suitor.”

  “I’m not a suitor.”

  “Precisely, and I’m not loose, so I have no idea why I’m lying here without my clothes.”

  He grinned his most cocky grin. “It was pleasant though, wasn’t it?”

  “Very pleasant,” she agreed.

  “I’m growing on you.”

  “Perish the thought, Mr. Scott.”

  “It’s Michael, remember?”

  “So it is, Michael. So it is.”

  He slid away and stood. She remained on the bed, looking lovely and rumpled and adorable, and the strangest emotions rocked him. He felt sad and grand, wonderful, but wretched too. He ached to say things to her he’d never said to anyone, about his difficult childhood, about how successful he’d become.

  He’d like to tell her about the vision he’d had out on the street when he was riding up with Ramsey. Why did he always observe another boy? A boy who was so much like him? A boy who might be his other half?

  He wanted to tell her about his real name being Michael Blair, that someone was searching for a man with that name. The need to belong, to know his past, to stare across the supper table and have a familiar face staring back, was so strong that he often felt ill just from contemplating it.