Heart's Delight

by Cheryl Holt

  “The fate of her world does depend on it.”

  “So what? She’s been very clear in her opinion of me, and Farrow will never persuade her to participate.”

  “We’ll see,” Ramsey mused.

  “Yes, we will.”

  * * * *

  “Don’t say a word.”

  “Who’s there?”

  Ramsey slipped a hip onto the mattress of Rebecca’s bed and clasped a palm over her mouth so she wouldn’t cry out.

  It was dark, just a hint of moonlight shining in her bedroom window, and he didn’t want to scare her where she’d scream and servants might come running. Not that anybody would. He’d snooped through the empty halls and hadn’t encountered a single soul.

  Still, he had to be careful and couldn’t be caught—for he wouldn’t cross Michael. In the horrid years they were boys, Michael had saved him on a thousand occasions. Michael had patiently trained Ramsey so he’d become the shrewd, tough criminal he was.

  Most of all, Michael had taken Ramsey with him on their journey to wealth and power. Michael wasn’t the sort to leave a man behind. He was the most fiercely loyal person Ramsey had ever met, and Ramsey was fiercely loyal in return.

  Except now, with Rebecca in the picture, he was considering a bit of betrayal. Michael had warned him away from Rebecca, but if Michael never learned of Ramsey’s folly, where was the harm?

  “It’s me, Ramsey Scott,” he whispered. She nodded against his palm, letting him know she understood. “I’m moving my hand away. Don’t make a sound.”

  He eased away as she said, “I won’t.”

  “Good.”

  She sat up, the blankets clutched to her chest, her brunette hair flowing around her shoulders. “Why are you here?”

  “I came to see you.”

  “Seriously? Don’t you live in London?”

  “Most of the time.”

  “And you rode all this way?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in me. That night in the garden, you were very clear.”

  “Can’t a fellow change his mind?”

  “A fellow can, but it seems awfully peculiar.” She batted her lashes. “I’m still the naïve maiden you can’t abide.”

  “Maybe I’ve decided to try new things.”

  She stuck her pert nose up in the air. “You won’t be trying any new things with me.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Very sure.”

  “I’m surprised to hear it. I took you for the type of girl who was innocent but curious.”

  “Curious about what? About you?”

  Her big blue eyes wandered down his torso, and there was a lot of him to see.

  “I want to show you something,” he told her.

  “What is it?”

  “I want to show you, not tell you.”

  “I’m not certain I like you, and from that gleam in your gaze, it’s obvious you’re contemplating mischief.”

  “I am. I admit it.”

  “I can’t involve myself with you now. Gaylord went to London to engage me to Michael Scott. I’m to be married.”

  “To Michael?”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t spoken to your brother-in-law?”

  “No, he’s not back yet.”

  “You’re not marrying Michael.”

  “He said no?”

  “He said no.”

  “Oh.”

  Her shoulders slumped with defeat, and he suffered the worst wave of pity for her. Farrow had bartered over her like a fattened sow, hoping Michael would feast, but Michael would never have considered it, and Farrow was mad to have proceeded.

  She foolishly assumed Farrow had sought a betrothal to Michael! She believed her brother-in-law had traveled to town with good intentions!

  Ramsey bit down the scathing rebukes he yearned to hurl about Farrow. He would never inform her that her brother-in-law had started out talking marriage, but had ended up proposing another arrangement entirely.

  Ramsey made his living off of disreputable gentlemen. They regularly ruined themselves, and as they raced to undo their recklessness, the despicable swine tendered bribes and other inducements too hideous to mention in polite company.

  Nothing astonished him any longer, but even in his jaded view he’d been disgusted by Farrow. The poor girl wasn’t safe with her brother-in-law. If Farrow would offer her as mistress to a fiend like Michael, what dastardly fate might Farrow engineer for her next?

  “Were you eager for a betrothal to Michael?” Ramsey asked. “Were you counting on it?”

  If she’d set her heart on Michael, Ramsey would be crushed. Michael was handsome and dashing and civilized as Ramsey could never be. Ramsey was handsome enough, but he was too rough around the edges for any genuine lady to pick him over Michael.

  “I wasn’t counting on it precisely,” she claimed. “I’m simply desperate to escape Cliffside. Gaylord is in financial trouble with his gambling, and I’m anxious to flee before the walls crash down on us.”

  “That’s very wise,” Ramsey agreed, but didn’t provide any pertinent facts. Evidently she wasn’t aware that the estate was already forfeit, and Ramsey wasn’t about to apprise her. Farrow could explain his own sins.

  “Marriage to Mr. Scott would remove me from Cliffside,” she said, “but I wasn’t obsessing over it. Gaylord could have given me to him or anyone, and I’d have been relieved. At this late date, I’m not choosey.”

  Ramsey snorted with amusement. She was keen to be rescued, and while Michael was nobody’s savior, could Ramsey jump into the role of champion? Was it possible?

  He wasn’t sure. There was the major problem of where to take her. He was a confirmed bachelor who had no plans to wed, so if he convinced her to steal away, what was his purpose? Somehow he couldn’t see her staying in his rooms over Michael’s club, and Michael would never allow it, so what did he intend?

  “Why have you visited me?” she asked. “Are you here to climb under the blankets? Am I about to be ravished?”

  “I might climb under the blankets, but I don’t know about the ravishing part. I haven’t decided what I want from you.”

  “You won’t get very far unless you have marriage in mind.”

  “I don’t have marriage in mind.”

  “I didn’t suppose you would.”

  “I like to be clear about that right up front.” Actually, in light of the trollops who usually serviced him, no woman of his acquaintance would have assumed matrimony was on the table.

  “We’re just chatting?” she inquired.

  “Maybe.”

  He reached for the blanket she had clutched to her bosom, and with only a minor tug of war, he pulled it away and pushed it down her legs.

  She was clad in a frilly nightgown, pristine white with flowers stitched on the bodice. It was sewn from too much fabric, so it billowed around her, hiding any pertinent areas.

  “Do you always sleep in a nightgown?” he asked.

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Not me.”

  “That sounds perfectly scandalous.”

  “From now on, you’re to sleep in the nude.”

  “Why?”

  “So next time I stop by, you won’t be wearing anything.”

  “You might stop by again?”

  “I might.”

  “Who said you’d be welcome?” she snottily taunted.

  “You’ll be glad when I arrive. I’d bet a hundred pounds on it.”

  “I might not be glad. I might be furious.”

  He chuckled. “Sleep without a nightgown—starting tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be naked!”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  He was feeling less and less sure, not convinced that he should proceed. No matter what he did, there was the specter of Michael lurking in the background, advising him to tamp down his most riotous behaviors.

  He’d had no business sneaking into her bedc
hamber, no business riding from London merely to speak with her. He’d been prepared to deflower her, but had no plan after that.

  “I have to head out,” he said.

  She scowled as if he was a lunatic. “You just got here.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have come.”

  “You’re making no sense at all.”

  “Let me see your breasts,” he suddenly requested. “Give me a treat for my troubles.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I heard a few rumors about you.”

  “What were they?”

  “You’re a slattern at heart.”

  “Just because I flirt occasionally doesn’t mean I have low morals.”

  “I like girls with low morals. They’re my favorite kind. I just don’t like innocent girls, but a girl with slatternly tendencies has a way of shedding her innocence very quickly.”

  The front of her nightgown was tied with a prim bow. He grabbed the dangling string and tugged to undo the knot.

  “Stop that.” She clasped his wrist, which was pointless. He couldn’t be deterred.

  “No. I want to see if you have any feminine parts that are worth looking at. I can’t tell what’s under all that virginal white fabric.”

  “I have plenty to look at.”

  “Show me.”

  She didn’t move, and he shoved the garment down and off her shoulders. Two very pert breasts popped out. She yelped with alarm and tried to cover herself, but he pinned her arms at her sides and took a thorough assessment. He stroked a palm over them, the nipples jumping to attention as he pinched them with finger and thumb.

  “Very nice,” he murmured.

  “I’m delighted that you approve.”

  “Oh, I definitely approve.”

  He leaned down and sucked a nipple into his mouth, and he held her close, her slender torso pressed to his chest. It seemed as if she fit against him exactly right, as if she’d been created specifically for him.

  He eased her onto her back, and he came over her, nibbling a trail up her neck, her chin, to capture her lips in a torrid kiss. She leapt in immediately, providing ample evidence that she wasn’t a novice. Her apparent amorous skill made him wonder just how chaste she actually was.

  If they forged ahead, perhaps there’d be no deflowering. Perhaps there’d already been one.

  He kissed her until he couldn’t stand it anymore, until he was on the edge of serious transgressions. There were always consequences, and since he was in the habit of acting rashly, Michael frequently had to clean up Ramsey’s messes. With Michael having warned him away, Ramsey might be biting off more with Rebecca than he could chew.

  During every mile of the lengthy trip to Cliffside, he’d told himself that it would be fine to initiate illicit conduct, but what if it wasn’t? He had to ponder the ramifications, had to be confident of his path.

  He drew away, and she grinned at him, appearing happy but sly too, as if she had seduced him instead of the other way around.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “You’re not so bad.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “Tell me why you’re really here.”

  “I just…” He paused, considering how much he should reveal. Finally he said, “You’re not safe with your brother-in-law.”

  “I’ve always felt imperiled by him—ever since the day he jilted Magdalena.”

  “He’s gambled away Cliffside. Were you aware of that?”

  She frowned. “He’s lost the whole property?”

  “Yes.”

  “We realized he was having difficulties, but I had no idea it had gone so far.”

  “Michael Scott owns Cliffside.”

  At the news, she was horrified. “It’s not ours?”

  “No, and when a man like Gaylord Farrow is under a lot of pressure, he might do any awful thing.”

  She stared at him, waiting for him to say more, but he’d cut off his tongue before he’d inform her of Farrow’s pathetic attempt to sell her to Michael.

  Ultimately she inquired, “Would you take me away with you?”

  “I might.”

  “Would you take me right now?”

  “I have to make some arrangements first.”

  “What kind of arrangements?”

  “If I snatched you away, I don’t have a place to put you.”

  “I wouldn’t be any trouble. You won’t even know I’m there.”

  He scoffed. “Little lady, I’m guessing trouble is your middle name.”

  “I swear I won’t be a nuisance. And you wouldn’t have to wed me. Just take me with you.”

  There was nothing more riveting she could have said. She was willing, without the bother or demand of marriage. What more could a dissolute fellow such as himself hope to find?

  “Even on those terms,” he replied, “I still have to prepare for your arrival.”

  She sighed. “Fine, but promise you’ll come back.”

  “I’ll come back. Pack a bag and stow it under your bed—just a small satchel we can tie on a horse.”

  “I’ll need clothes to wear, so I’ll have to have more than a single bag.”

  “I’ll buy you clothes. I’ll buy you a whole damned wardrobe, fit for a queen.”

  He swooped in and enjoyed another lush kiss, then he slid off the mattress and stood.

  “Be ready to leave at a moment’s notice,” he said.

  “How long will you be, a day, a month, a year? What?”

  “Give me a few weeks.”

  “Weeks! Any tragedy could happen in a few weeks.”

  “Yes, but you’ll be away from Cliffside before anything too terrible can occur.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “Be ready,” he repeated, “and remember our agreement. I’ll help you, but there will be no strings attached, and you’ll cause me no trouble.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “Keep peeking over your shoulder,” he said. “You never know when I’ll be standing there.”

  He spun away and went over to the French window that led out onto a balcony. He leapt over the rail, caught a tree branch, and slithered to the ground, vanishing so fast and so quietly that he might never have been there at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Where is your home, Mr. Scott?”

  Michael stared at Felicia, figuring he shouldn’t say, I mostly stay in the rooms over my gambling club.

  “I recently came into possession of an excellent estate in Surrey.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Cliffside.”

  “But…it’s not really your home.”

  “No, but I’ve never had a home.”

  “Everyone has a home, even if it’s a hovel in the forest.”

  “I never did.”

  “Why is that?”

  Michael gaped at his fiancée, but didn’t answer. He’d already slipped up in his replies. He should have simply claimed he’d grown up at Cliffside.

  With her father being an earl, she was from a world where status meant everything, so he wasn’t about to tell her he was an orphan and criminal celebrated for his tough demeanor and stubborn determination.

  He’d stupidly assumed he could betroth himself to her with very little consequence. Her father had agreed to Michael’s terms, and Michael had given scant thought to the situation beyond that. He hadn’t considered her feelings about what had happened, hadn’t considered that she might be unhappy, even angry.

  She would marry Michael because her father had ordered her to, but no one—not even her exalted father—could force her to be glad.

  “Shall we keep walking?” he asked. “We could follow the path down to the river. It might be cooler down there.”

  “I’d like to stand here and chat—if that’s all right with you.”

  “Yes, that’s fine.”

  They were at her father’s London property. It was located just outside the city, with Lord and Lady Stone ha
ving hosted an afternoon engagement party for their daughter. There were white tents set up in the garden, tables overflowing with food and champagne. Waiters hovered, eager to grant every person’s immediate wish, but he and Felicia were away from the festivities, with her dragging him off for a private talk.

  The guests were a conglomeration of London’s elite citizenry. The men were mostly the snooty aristocratic pricks he loathed, and most of them owed him money. They had certainly looked chagrinned to have him welcomed into their hallowed halls where he was entitled to rub elbows on an equal footing. He’d love to go up to all the wives and whisper some of their husbands’ secrets.

  Having very typical blond hair and blue eyes, Felicia was a fetching girl, short and plump, with rosy cheeks, fleshy arms, and plenty of bosom. She could have passed for a healthy dairy maid—that is if she’d been dressed in common clothes rather than an immaculate gown.

  It was a pretty shade of blue, the color highlighted by gaudy sapphire jewelry, and he gleaned satisfaction from knowing the jewels could have been his and that she’d been able to keep them because of the deal he’d struck with her father. Did she understand that fact? How much had her father told her about what had transpired?

  No doubt she blamed Michael for the debacle. The family members always blamed him.

  “Why did you pick me?” she inquired.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father has decreed that I shall marry you, and I’ve agreed, Mr. Scott. We may end up wed for decades, but we haven’t spoken a dozen words to one another. So I ask again, why me?”

  “Because your father offered.”

  “He offered you my hand? You didn’t seek the betrothal yourself?”

  “No, it was his idea.”

  She scowled. “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse. I was hoping you’d humor me and pretend you’d been dying to have me, that you’d begged him to give me to you.”

  “I’ve never begged in my life, and I’ve never been dying to have anything.”

  That wasn’t precisely true. When he was younger, he’d often been hungry and cold, and of course he’d been desperately poor. He’d frequently worried he might die—literally—if he didn’t find food to eat. But those days didn’t count anymore.

  She studied him. “Yes, I can see you’re not the sort of man to have ever begged.”