A Crown for a Lady

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  No wonder the man didn’t know how to ask for anything. He’d had a rotten example. Her own father would never have forced his will upon either of his two children.

  “You are, apparently, quite the darling this morning,” he said, pushing a section of The Times toward her. Something about his expression provoked her.

  The headline read: Rags To Riches.

  She drew it closer to read.

  The article cited rumors about her brother and hinted at possible scandals of financial debt and gambling problems. But, overall, it was a somewhat more positive recounting of Claire’s fairy-tale engagement, though she took exception to the reporter’s comment that she was not to be blamed for her brother’s suspected extracurricular activities. In the very same breath he hailed Claire as “London’s Darling” and called her an English success story. In great detail, the article expounded upon her very proper choice of dress and highlighted the evening’s festivities, which were offered through the “boundless generosity” of the Duchess of Kent, with the remainder of the account being a rather boring list of “attendees of consequence.”

  “I wonder if people believe everything they read,” she commented, trying to keep the contempt from her voice. Very gently, she pushed the paper back, so as not to offend him.

  “Of course, they do,” His Majesty assured, eyeing her. “Have a biscuit. Those are my favorite.”

  Before Claire could reach out to take one from the platter, the attending servant retrieved one and placed it on her plate.

  Claire eyed the biscuit a little warily.

  Good Lord, what if they had poisoned it?

  It was a ridiculous notion that somehow didn’t seem quite so ludicrous as she squirmed under His Majesty’s scrutiny.

  His Majesty’s plate, on the other hand, was filled to brimming with sausage, eggs, bacon and just about everything else that was available. But no biscuit.

  “I must tell you… I engaged in a bit of rebellion once upon a time,” His Majesty began.

  “Really?” Claire asked, her attention still centered on the lone biscuit sitting on her plate.

  “You understand rebellion,” he proposed. “As I hear tell, you have a history of nonconformist behavior.”

  Claire’s brows drew together at his implication. She looked at him, confused by their dialogue and slightly annoyed by his casual assassination of her character. Simply because she needed the money and had agreed to this farce didn’t mean that she should be forced to suffer such rudeness.

  It will all be over soon enough, she consoled herself.

  Nevertheless, she couldn’t quite hold her tongue. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think I would describe reading as any sort of rebellion. And my dear father, God rest his soul, never had the first objection to my exploring the sciences. In fact, he had very few objections to any of my interests. His only lament was that I wasn’t more sociable, like my brother.”

  He lifted a biscuit from the plate—a last—waving away her objections. “Yes, well, that brings me to another matter entirely, but I digress.”

  Claire braced herself. She had the sudden sense that she had walked right into the middle of an ambush.

  “Let us not mince words,” His Majesty proposed. “You must realize my son only chose you, Claire, because you were the least suitable candidate. In fact, just before he put that ring on your finger, we were discussing your lack of merits,” he explained. “He simply decided without a proper discussion. Well, I could hardly object, not publicly. Though, in the end, my son will do the good thing, I assure you—as did I. And, naturally, you will only have gained a reputation for gold digging after your brother’s antics are made public. I really don’t think that’s your intent, is it?”

  Claire sat, stunned by his frankness.

  At least he wasn’t being coy like the duchess would have been, smiling to her face and stabbing her in the back the instant she turned around. Her skin felt tingly and moist and her stomach felt as though it would sink somewhere beneath her chair.

  His gaze never left her. “What I am proposing, you see, is that I give you the funds you require, right now, so you can ransom your brother at once. For that payment, what I would require is that you pen my son a letter giving him your deepest regrets. And then you will simply go. And leave the ring, of course.”

  He allowed her a few moments to digest his offer.

  Claire’s head began to spin and her heart beat frantically. She swallowed, confused.

  It was what she most wanted, after all—her brother’s safe return. If he gave her the funds right now, there would be no more waiting. She could free Ben and put an end to this farce once and for all.

  “Naturally, I would also require your complete discretion, as my son should never know.”

  Claire thought she might be ill. She stared down at her hand, resting on the table, at the enormous ring on her finger.

  He was offering her a way out, so why was she hesitating?

  And why did she suddenly feel as though she would retch?

  “The ransom is twenty-five thousand pounds,” she reminded him, thinking that he would surely object.

  He straightened in his chair. “I am willing to provide fifty thousand—enough to ransom your brother and a little extra to help repay your family’s debt.”

  There was nothing more she could say.

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed for Ben’s sake, feeling instantly ill-used and sickened by the arrangement. Though, God’s truth, why she should feel so horrible about accepting Merrick’s father’s proposal and not Merrick’s was beyond her. Both were cut from the same cloth.

  “Excellent!” His Majesty proclaimed, sounding far more chipper than he ever had before in her presence. “I shall have the funds drawn at once.” He popped the remainder of his biscuit into his mouth, brushing the crumbs from his hands into his plate. “Well, that should conclude our business,” he said after he had swallowed. “You may go.”

  Just like that, he dismissed her.

  “Thank you,” Claire said, peering down at her untouched biscuit, and tried to rise from her seat without embarrassing herself. Her legs felt weak.

  Dazed, she turned to go.

  “Oh, and Claire… as a courtesy to my son, let me reemphasize that we should handle this affair as discreetly as possible.”

  “Yes, of course,” Claire agreed. He needn’t continue to emphasize discretion. What did he suppose she would do? Shout it from the rooftops? She held onto the table for support, unable to look at him.

  “And don’t worry; I shall be certain to squelch whatever rumors may arise concerning your brother’s activities and your subsequent engagement to my son,” he added.

  “Thank you,” she said again, and walked away before she could disgrace herself by weeping.

  Ignoring the prick of tears behind her lids, she hurried away, refusing even to look at the attending servant as she passed him by.

  * * *

  “He’s not going to lead us to Ben,” Ian said, trying one of the doors and finding it locked.

  They’d had Claire’s attacker cornered, both he and Cameron blocking entrances and exits to the alley, but the man seemed to have realized he was being pursued and had, somehow, eluded them, slipping into one of the alley’s back doors. “He knows he’s being followed.”

  “Alright, then we’ll have to beat it out of him,” Cameron said, trying yet another door.

  Ian chuckled, though Cameron likely wasn’t jesting. Actually, Ian would like to do it, too, if only he were certain it was the same man who attacked Claire. He would do it simply to make him pay for mistreating the woman he loved.

  Damn her, by the way.

  Why had she turned so sullen last night? Whatever he had said or done to upset her, there must be something he could do to make it up to her.

  “You seem distracted,” Cameron said.

  When wasn’t he of late? “Merely tired. Last night was enough to curl one’s liver.”

&n
bsp; “You’re simply not accustomed to it,” Cameron told him, trying another door and finding it unlocked.

  Ian’s brows shot up as the door clicked open. “Probably,” he admitted, casting Cameron a questioning glance.

  From inside came the sound of clinking glasses. Drunken voices drifted out to the alley. High-pitched female laughter made both of them wince.

  “Sounds like a pub.”

  “Shall we enter?”

  “I could use a shot of cheap whiskey,” Ian replied.

  “On one condition. I never drink with blokes till I know their true names.”

  Ian chuckled. “It’s Ian,” he supplied, “though I’d rather you call me bastard than use my given name just now.”

  Cameron shook his head. “I’m the bloody bastard,” he contended. “But will ‘whoreson’ do?”

  Ian grinned.

  “Whoreson it is, then,” Cameron announced. “Now let’s go have that shot of rotgut. Maybe we’ll happen on our friend while we’re at it.”

  Chapter 23

  Ian stumbled into the house in Berkeley Square somewhere near midnight, completely soused.

  It felt damned good to speak his mind to someone with some bloody common sense. Cameron excluded, these city bastards were nothing like his kith and kin.

  Trying not to wake anyone as he made his way upstairs, he nevertheless slipped on the bottom step, landing on his face.

  At once, he checked his pocket to be sure he hadn’t damaged his gift for Claire. Finding it intact, he smiled and gently patted his coat. Pulling himself up, he stumbled up the stairwell, cursing himself for drinking so damned much.

  The last time he’d come home this foxed he was but a green boy with too many oats to sow. Well, he still had oats to sow, damn it all, but the problem was that he only wanted to sow them in one place. Just one… sweet…

  Och now, what was wrong with him? He was a fine braw lad, wasn’t he? Why wouldn’t Claire wish to marry him?

  He found her door easily enough, intended to knock, but somehow forgot and pushed it open. “Hey hinnie,” he said. “Di’ ye miss me?”

  Claire sat upright, crying out, startled by the intrusion. The accent wasn’t at all familiar, but the voice was. “Merrick?”

  “Iss jus me, lass,” he reassured, tripping across a small rug.

  “Merrick!” she exclaimed as he stumbled forward onto her bed. “What are you doing? Get up! You can’t stay here. This isn’t seemly!”

  Oblivious to her admonitions, he rolled over onto his back, lying across her bed, grinning broadly. “I came tae gi’ ye a wee bitty gift.”

  “Good Lord! You’re jug bitten!” she accused him.

  “Nah,” he proclaimed, slapping his chest. “I jus hadda wee dram is all.” And he pinched his fingers together, holding one eye closed as he tried to show her the amount.

  He was more than a trifle disguised, Claire realized.

  Botheration! She’d spent most of the day sobbing since speaking to his father. She had been praying, hoping, Merrick would return with good news, so she might tell them both to keep their blood money… so that she might do what her heart urged her to do. And all the while she’d been weeping, obviously, Merrick had spent the entire day and night deep in his cups.

  She glowered at him. “Where have you been?”

  “Chasing a verra, verra bad man,” he explained, hiccupped, then closed his eyes, slapping both hands on his chest.

  Her ire faded a bit at his explanation.

  Suddenly, he lifted up one hand, and said, “Gad! I hope I didn’t kill your present.”

  “You brought me a present?” Claire couldn’t keep the surprise from her tone.

  “Aye, lass. I did. A wee bitty gift.”

  Botheration! She didn’t really want to care that he’d thought about her, but she did. It pleased her immensely.

  Curiosity got the best of her. “What did you bring me?”

  He grinned a lopsided grin and gingerly opened up his coat pocket to search within. Spotting what he was looking for, he slid his fingers within to retrieve it. “Look… iss a but-ter-fly!” He held it up for her inspection.

  Claire tried not to laugh. He seemed inordinately proud of his captured prize. Squinting to better see it, she couldn’t suppress a smile. She wasn’t entirely certain she should tell him the truth, but she couldn’t resist. “It’s a moth.”

  He frowned. “Nah, my love, tis a wee but-ter-fly!”

  Claire’s brows lifted. He’d called her my love.

  It was nothing more than drunken babble, but it tripped her heart, nevertheless. She reached out to take the poor insect from his fingertips. Sadly, the moth was very still, its wings already turning to powder. She didn’t have the heart to tell Merrick it was already deceased. “Thank you,” she said and meant it. “It’s quite lovely.”

  “You are lov-ely,” he whispered, then hiccupped again.

  Despite the chilly night air, warmth spread through Claire’s entire body, creeping up into her cheeks.

  He was staring at her, smiling crookedly, looking at her as though his heart were right there in his eyes, and Claire suddenly felt acutely aware of her lack of dress.

  She set the dead moth on the nightstand, and she knew she should ask him to leave, but she really didn’t want him to go. Not yet.

  “There is sooo much I want to tell you… but I jus can’t… yet.”

  “You don’t have to say anything at all,” Claire assured him.

  It wouldn’t matter anyway, she lamented. Soon enough, it would all be over. Then he could choose a bride his father would approve of and she and Ben would return to their ordinary lives. The thought absolutely devastated her.

  Who would have thought she’d grow to love the arrogant knave lying beside her?

  They stared at one another.

  Moonlight sifted in through the window.

  Diffused through billowing drapery, it fell across Merrick’s face. Lying as he was, his lashes cast long shadows over his magnificent cheeks and his hair shone like spun silver.

  He was, indeed, beautiful and she would sorely miss that crooked smile and sharp wit.

  She would crave his kisses long after the taste of his mouth and the warmth of his touch had faded from her memory.

  “I suffer a ringing in my head that’ll not cease to torment me,” he blurted.

  Claire cocked her head at him. “Are you ill?”

  “Aye,” he said. “I am, lass. I’m addicted to your mouth… and your lips.”

  Claire’s cheeks burned. “What has that to do with the ringing in your head?” she asked, ignoring the tiny thrill his admission gave her. But she couldn’t contain her smile.

  “Something about cannons and kisses,” he muttered. “I read it in a… book… once. Only now I understand what it means.”

  She was relieved he understood what it meant, because she didn’t comprehend a single word coming out of his mouth. And nevertheless, she was glad he’d come to her. They wouldn’t have many more opportunities to be alone together. Tonight might be the very last time.

  “What time is it?” she inquired.

  “Do you want me… to leave?”

  “No,” she confessed.

  “Very well. I’ll stay, if you insist.” He grinned. “But only if you’ll kiss me.” He closed his eyes and puckered his lips.

  Claire laughed, reaching out to caress his cheek with the back of her hand. “Silly, silly man,” she said.

  He seemed to be waiting for his kiss, and then his face relaxed. He blew a hearty sigh that ruffled the hair resting on his brow and she knew at once that he was asleep. She bent forward, touching her mouth to his lips. He didn’t stir.

  “I think I love you,” she whispered.

  He didn’t respond.

  Tears pricked at her lids. And, for a long, long moment, Claire simply stared at his face, trying to imagine how things might have been… until he began to snore.

  Claire considered waking him and as
king him to leave, realizing that her reputation would be at stake if she were to allow him to remain. But at the moment, she really didn’t care. When all was said and done, she didn’t think she would ever love anyone again. This feeling had accosted her precisely when she’d thought her heart immune.

  Adjusting her pillow beside him, she laid her head down and set her hand upon his chest, closing her eyes, feeling safer lying next to him than she’d felt in all her life.

  When she was old and gray, she would remember this moment and there would be no regrets. She thought of the moth lying so still at her bedside and smiled a bittersweet smile. She fell asleep with Merrick’s heart beating soundly beneath her palm.

  Chapter 24

  Ian awoke to the sound of smooth, even breathing, but not his own. Claire was lying beside him… as it should be… as he hoped it would be for the rest of his days. He knew her scent without opening his eyes. Roses and woman.

  His head ached, but his groin ached all the more.

  Lord a’mighty, he wanted her.

  The blood rushed into his loins as he thought of taking her, and his heart began to pound as he thought of burying himself between her sweet thighs.

  He opened his eyes.

  It was dark.

  She was like a chimera curled up beside him on the bed, her beautiful face buried against the pillow, the moonlight lucent against her white gown, revealing everything and nothing at all. He held his breath, because as she took each slumbering breath, her breasts teased his arm. His palms ached to cradle the plump little delicacies.

  Heaven above, she should have asked him to leave. Now, he was afraid it might be too late.

  He was a bloody rotten hound for coming to her so late, as though she were no more than a bit of muslin. But he hadn’t been able to help himself. Like a siren’s song, her presence under the same roof was a temptation he couldn’t resist.

  He didn’t want to resist her anymore.

  He gently pushed the pillow off his shoulder, trying not to disturb her sleep. He considered leaving, but he was powerless to stop himself from bending to touch his lips against her mouth. The taste of her was like manna to his starving soul.