Heart's Delight

by Cheryl Holt

  “I usually take what I want.”

  “Did you want me?”

  Michael shrugged. “You’ll do.”

  She laughed miserably. “If I was a wilting violet kind of girl, that reply might send me into a weeping swoon.”

  “I’m glad to hear you’re not weepy. I hate hysterical women.”

  “Well then, I’ll be sure to never suffer an upset in your tender presence.”

  Michael chuckled. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She scrutinized him more closely, assessing his expensive clothes, the diamond ring on his finger. “Are you wealthy?”

  “Very.”

  “I won’t live in rags and have to milk the cows before supper?”

  “No.”

  “Praise be!” she sarcastically said. “I’m sorry to pepper you with questions, but my father won’t answer any, and I believe I’m entitled to know a bit about you.”

  “You can ask me whatever you like.” He couldn’t guarantee his responses would be truthful, but she could certainly ask.

  “What type of life have you envisioned for us?”

  Michael frowned. “What type of life?”

  “We’re barely acquainted. How will we get on?”

  “As most couples do, I suppose.”

  “Are you being deliberately obtuse or are you not much of a one for conversation?”

  “I don’t mind a hearty conversation, but this is more awkward than I’d imagined it would be.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  “I don’t mean to offend you,” he said, “but I haven’t spent much time contemplating what this would be like.”

  “This being…?”

  “Our engagement. You.”

  She batted her lashes. “There you go again, making me feel special.”

  Michael smiled. She was being a good sport, and he was being an ass, but he simply couldn’t exhibit better behavior.

  All his life, he’d detested the aristocracy, seeming to have an almost inbred abhorrence for them. He’d assumed it would be amusing to force his way into their inner circle, to breach the gates and steal one of their precious daughters. Yet now that he was on the inside, now that the future was barreling down on him like a runaway carriage, he was sensing a huge mistake in progress.

  He didn’t care about the Jamaican plantation or the ships he’d receive. He’d enjoyed Lord Stone’s squirming, had enjoyed having the lofty man under his thumb. But evidently Michael was aggravated by his betrothal, and it was an awful time to figure it out. He wasn’t actually opposed to marrying and wasn’t overly opposed to marrying her. So what was wrong?

  A memory of Maggie Wells flashed into his head, and the problem with Felicia became very clear.

  When he was around Maggie, there was a physical connection between them that was so strong, the air sizzled with energy. With Felicia, he didn’t feel a thing. Not lust. Not passion. Not piqued interest. Not even mild curiosity.

  He was simply wondering how tedious the approaching years would be. Since he hated her father, hated all her acquaintances, and thrived on ruining people like Lord Stone, how would they ever get along?

  His secret wish—too unmanly to mention aloud—was that he yearned for a home and family, but he craved a genuine family, a wife who loved him, who would be his partner through thick and thin.

  Felicia would provide polite company and courteous exchanges, and the underlying impression would always be that she couldn’t abide him, that he’d won her under false pretenses. Could he carry on like that? Would it be worth it?

  “What is Cliffside like?” she inquired.

  “Very grand, but if it doesn’t please you, I’ll buy you another property.”

  “Whatever I want?”

  “Yes.”

  “You really are rich.”

  “Yes, I really am.”

  “Good. From how my father talks about you, I thought maybe you gambled to earn your living.”

  “I gamble occasionally, but I make money other ways too.”

  “What ways?”

  I smuggle, embezzle, steal, threaten, blackmail, and rob.

  “I’m a businessman.”

  “A successful businessman?”

  “Enormously successful, and I oughtn’t to brag, but in light of your father’s penury, you’re lucky you latched on to me.”

  “Why, I’m the luckiest girl in the world these days.”

  “I wish I could say I’m the man of your dreams.”

  “You’re not.” She gasped. “Mr. Scott, I most humbly apologize. Forgive me. I’m not myself this afternoon, and I’m ashamed to have voiced such a rude remark.”

  “It’s all right. I realize you expected to land a fellow who was much more refined.”

  “Yes, I was raised around the sons of the peerage, and I assumed I would wed one of them.”

  “Let me be indiscreet and confide that I likely know every swain you’ve ever considered as a spouse. You’re not missing much by having to abandon them.”

  “Are you claiming I’m taking a step up with you?”

  “I would never claim it’s a step up, but I can swear to you that I won’t ever gamble away your jewels or your children.”

  “I’m so relieved to hear it.”

  “I work hard and make good decisions, so you won’t ever have to worry that I might foolishly destroy your life without you learning of my folly until it’s too late.”

  “That’s a plus.”

  He’d womanize extensively though, but he didn’t suppose it was a sin he should confess. It was information he’d keep between himself and his favorite doxies.

  “And I’ll be kind and respectful,” he added. “I’ll never beat you.”

  “You’ll never beat me? I never for a single instant deemed that a trait over which I should fret when I was selecting a husband.”

  “You should have.”

  “Why?”

  “You’d be surprised by the trouble a female can find for herself through matrimony.”

  “You won’t beat me!”

  She put her hands over her eyes, and for a moment he thought she was crying. Quickly, he discovered she was chortling, but with dismay.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Scott,” she said, “but I have to return to the party now.”

  “Fine.”

  He moved to take her arm to escort her, but she pulled away.

  “I can get there on my own. You won’t be horridly offended, will you?”

  “Nothing horridly offends me,” he told her, but it was a lie.

  Most things horridly provoked him. He had large appetites and was never tepidly emotional about any topic. He was extremely happy or extremely angry or extremely vexed. Where his mental state was concerned, there were no calm sentiments.

  “Would you stop by again someday,” she asked, “so we can talk further?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could we visit Cliffside? I’d like to see where we’ll be living.”

  “Certainly. The prior tenants are still there, but they’ll be leaving soon.”

  “And if I don’t like it…?”

  “I’ll buy you something else. I promised, and I meant it.”

  She gaped at him as if he was a heathen—which he was—but he wouldn’t judge her too harshly. She was only eighteen, and her father had dumped his problems on her plump shoulders. She was right to be afraid. She was right to worry.

  She spun and left, and he trailed after her, watching to ensure she reached her guests with no difficulty. Briefly, he tensed as a man stepped out of the hedges to speak with her, but she appeared to know him. They exchanged a few whispered words, then she kept on, and the man vanished into the shrubbery.

  From Michael’s fleeting glimpse, the man looked like an old enemy, Blaylock, who worked as a guard for various rich nobs when they were out carousing.

  One night on Michael’s street, Blaylock had caught one of Michael’s young pickpockets in the act, and Blay
lock had beaten the boy nearly to death in punishment. Michael had returned the favor, giving Blaylock a thrashing he’d never forget and warning him that Michael would kill him if they ever crossed paths again.

  Would Blaylock dare show his face at Michael’s betrothal party?

  He considered chasing after the furtive fellow, but if it was Blaylock, and Michael cornered him, there would be a huge scene, and he was loath to pick a fight in front of Lady Stone and her snooty friends. Yet if Blaylock was lurking, it couldn’t be with decent intentions. Was he scheming with Felicia? Could she be aware of Blaylock’s enmity toward Michael? Was she aware that Michael reciprocated that dislike? Should he tell her to be careful?

  He couldn’t decide what was best. If it hadn’t been Blaylock, he’d sound like a paranoid idiot. Perhaps it had been a beau, and if Michael questioned her about the encounter, his relationship with her would grow even more strained.

  He wandered over to the party tent, desperate to have more whiskey. He was feeling low and wishing he hadn’t set the current madness in motion. Ramsey was the one to engage in reckless, pointless behavior. Not Michael. But Michael was very vain, and with Lord Stone giving him a daughter, Michael couldn’t imagine giving her back.

  He stood alone in the shade, listening to the people around him and being generally ignored.

  A group of women was blathering on, and one of them said, “Lady Run, that is the most romantic story.”

  “I wouldn’t call it romantic, but it’s intriguing, isn’t it?”

  Michael peeked at the woman who’d been addressed as Lady Run. She was beautifully exotic, with gorgeous blond hair and big blue eyes, and he thought she might be the most striking female he’d ever seen. The other aristocratic ladies paled in comparison.

  “A lost family,” someone gushed, “and lost brothers.”

  Another said, “If I’d lost my siblings at such a tender age, I wouldn’t search for them. I’d be afraid of who I’d find. They might have become brigands or criminals.”

  Everyone laughed, and Lady Run said, “I’m not concerned about the sort of men I’ll find. My brother, Bryce, is wonderful, and I’m positive they’ll be much the same.”

  “Have you had any response to your advertisements in the newspapers?”

  “No,” Lady Run said. “We’ve received a few replies, but none that were serious enough to be investigated.”

  Michael froze in his tracks. Was Lady Run the person who’d purchased the advertisement about Michael Blair? Could it be?

  She glanced up and noticed Michael where he skulked in the shadows. Her vibrant blue eyes drilled into him, and under her shrewd assessment he suffered the strangest reaction. His ears were ringing, his heart racing, his head pounding. He was dizzy, as if he might fall to the ground, and it occurred to him that he should get out of the sun and cut back on the liquor.

  She smiled, and his disorientation increased. He had an abrupt memory of his mother—who’d been blond and spectacularly beautiful just like Lady Run.

  When Michael had been little, he’d dreamed of his mother occasionally, but the visions had gradually faded. Ultimately he believed he didn’t remember what she’d looked like. But…she’d looked exactly like Lady Run.

  Yes, he recollected now.

  Lady Run abandoned her companions and came over to him. With a complete disregard for fussy protocol, she asked, “Aren’t you the blushing groom?”

  Her vibrant character washed over him, yanking him out of the peculiar cloud in which he’d been temporarily enveloped.

  “I’m the groom,” he said, “but I don’t usually blush.”

  “We haven’t been introduced.”

  “I apologize for the slight.”

  “You don’t mind if I introduce myself then, do you? I have to leave shortly, and I would hate not to have met you. You won’t faint from shock?”

  Michael chuckled. “I’ll try not to.”

  “I’m Evangeline Drake. My husband is Aaron Drake, Lord Run. Are you acquainted?”

  “No, but I know his brother quite well.”

  Aaron Drake was one of the few men in the kingdom who didn’t gamble. His brother Lucas though, was a different case entirely and in debt up to his eyeballs. Michael hadn’t seen Lucas Drake recently and rumor had it that he’d married. Maybe his wife had calmed his more horrid tendencies.

  “You own a gambling club, don’t you?” She talked as if it was perfectly normal for them to discuss his disreputable business.

  “Ah…yes,” he admitted, not sure if he should.

  “I’m not surprised that you’re acquainted with Lucas. He’s a renowned scalawag.”

  “He definitely is,” Michael agreed.

  “I hope you won’t deem me indiscreet, but I’m told you and Lady Felicia will be living at Cliffside in Surrey.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m confused by this situation. I went to school with a girl named Magdalena Wells, and her family owned Cliffside.”

  “It’s the same family,” he cautiously stated. “They’ve had a bit of trouble over the years.”

  “How dreadful. Have you any news of Magdalena? We were great friends, and after we finished school, we corresponded for awhile. Then her letters stopped. Last I heard from her, she was engaged to be married.”

  “She didn’t marry.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “Actually, she’s here in London. She operates a charity rescue mission near my club.”

  “Magdalena does that? I can’t picture it. How did it come about?”

  “I don’t know.” He wasn’t inclined to share Magdalena’s secrets. If she chose to confide in Lady Run, it was her story to tell.

  “I would love to see Magdalena. Would you take me to visit her someday, Mr. Scott?”

  “Well…ah…certainly. It’s not a very nice part of the city.”

  “I’m sure I can bear up. If I give you my card, you could pick me up and escort me. I’d be safe with you, wouldn’t I?”

  “If you weren’t, your husband and his brother would murder me.”

  Her smile widened. “I imagine they would.”

  He wanted to decline, but there was a seductive air about her that drew Michael in, that made him eager to linger in her presence and beg for favors. No doubt her home was located on the finest block in Mayfair, and he’d be embarrassed to show her his crowded, squalid street.

  But apparently he couldn’t refuse her, and Aaron Drake had Michael’s sympathies. How could a man ever say no to such a woman?

  He stared into her blue eyes and his pulse rate soared again. The ringing in his ears was back.

  “Have we met before?” she suddenly asked.

  “No.”

  “Are you positive? You look so familiar to me.”

  “You’re quite amazing, Lady Run. I’d definitely remember.”

  “You’re a flirt, Mr. Scott.” She grinned. “I’ve heard many things about you, but not that you’re a flirt. Or that you’re so charming.”

  “I’m charming?” He was grinning now too. “I’ll have to tell my fiancée you think so. She hasn’t yet realized how wonderful I am.”

  Aaron Drake took that moment to walk up to his wife.

  “We have to go,” he told her.

  Lady Run beamed at her husband in a manner that—had they been in a darkened room—would have lit up the whole space.

  “Aaron,” she said, “have you been introduced to the groom?”

  “No, but Mr. Scott and I have many mutual acquaintances.”

  He and Aaron Drake made all the appropriate remarks, then Lady Run said to her husband, “Does Mr. Scott seem familiar to you? He insists we haven’t met, but I’m certain we have. I’m trying to place him.”

  “He looks just like your brother Bryce,” Lord Run replied, “if Bryce had black hair instead of blond.”

  Lady Run studied Michael and mused, “My goodness, yes. Mr. Scott, do you know my brother, Bryce Blair?”

 
“Yes, I know Mr. Blair.” Blair was a regular customer, but he never had enough money to land himself in too much trouble.

  “The two of you could be twins,” she claimed.

  On her voicing the word twins, he was so overcome he worried he might faint—in the middle of the garden, with every snobbish prick in London watching.

  “Is Blair your maiden name?” he managed to force out.

  “Sort of. I grew up thinking I was Evangeline Etherton, but I’ve since learned my name was Annie Blair when I was little. My siblings and I were split apart for some reason. Bryce and I found each other again not too long ago.”

  She might have prattled on, but she must have noted his disorientation, because she stopped and laid a hand on his wrist.

  “Are you all right?” she asked. “You’re a bit green around the gills.”

  “I’ve had too much sun today,” he muttered.

  Lord Run added, “And you’re newly engaged. That would leave any man weak in the knees.”

  “Absolutely,” Michael mumbled.

  He said goodbye and staggered away. At least he hoped he’d said goodbye. In such exalted company, he hated to behave like an idiot.

  Somehow he left the garden and the party without informing anyone he was departing. When he was able to focus and muster another coherent thought, he was in the city, at his club, in his office. But he had no idea how he’d gotten there.

  * * * *

  “Pamela, this is a surprise.”

  “Hello, Magdalena.”

  Maggie gaped as if Pamela was an apparition. In the seven years Maggie had been in London, none of her family had ever visited. What could have brought Pamela to the city? It couldn’t be happy news.

  “Is there a problem at home?” Maggie inquired.

  “No.”

  They were in the main room at the mission. There were several long tables, with benches for the seats. The space was plain and functional and clean, yet Pamela scowled as if she’d descended to the pits of Hell.

  Her discomfort was understandable. Maggie’s reaction had been much the same when Vicar Sterns had initially shown her the neighborhood. Back then, Maggie had been the cosseted daughter of a rich gentleman. Her prior life experience had consisted solely of her attending Miss Peabody’s School for Girls, a posh academy with high tuition.