“Spare me your tears,” he snapped. “They will not work.”
“Oh!” Her lips were trembling. “You are very hard-hearted, sir. I cannot imagine what made you so.”
“Can’t you?” He could have told her. As a small child, in the wake of the influenza that had taken his parents, he’d found himself in the custody of his uncle, a man who’d put no stock in tender emotions. While Aunt Agatha had tried to protect him from her husband’s more egregious behavior, Spence had nevertheless learned several lessons at Uncle Richard’s hands—for Richard’s temper had been lightning quick, and he had resented the existence of the boy whose birth had belatedly robbed him of the viscountcy.
Those lessons at Richard’s hand still served him. A hard heart, Spence found, was very useful when governing the fortunes of a disastrously large and wild family. A hard-hearted man could not be disappointed by his family’s shenanigans. He could remain calm while controlling not only a passel of wastrel cousins but also any number of calculating brokers, dishonest bankers, and incompetent land stewards. Thanks to hard-heartedness, Spence had enriched the family prospects penny by penny, and had used whatever it took—threats, honeyed promises, brute force—to shut down the innumerable scandals to which St. Johns, by the very rashness in their blood, were prone.
The family was safer for his discipline. And it would remain so. Soon enough, he would recover Charles and deliver the idiot to Aunt Agatha. This girl and her exploits would not trouble his record of success. The very thought was laughable.
“Can I say nothing to persuade you?” she asked. “For I am innocent, I promise!”
He sighed. “If, by some slim chance, you’re telling the truth, then you’re not a criminal but rather the most grasping kind of fortune hunter—a secretary aiming for a viscount.” He allowed himself a mocking smile. “Why, I expect you were disappointed that no dukes came calling.”
“Oh.” She collapsed onto her back again and gazed at the ceiling. He turned down the lamp and reclined as well.
But her silence, as it drew on, began to disturb him. He could not even hear her breathing now.
“I suppose you’ll protest that his money and station had nothing to do with it,” he said at last, “and that you loved him with the fire of a thousand suns.”
A pause. “You sound like a romantic, sir.”
“My lord,” he corrected. But to his own surprise, he felt his ears begin to burn. Where had that turn of phrase come from? “A figure of speech, merely. A very trite one.”
“Oh.” Another beat of silence. “Well, I won’t tell you I loved him, for I didn’t. But I was very, very grateful to him.”
That surprised him enough to turn up the lamp again.
She met his eyes, her own wide and deceptively guileless. Shameless, in fact. “My honesty shocks you?” she asked. “But love can grow from gratitude, I’m quite sure.”
This was an odd choice on her part—this pragmatic routine. “‘Shock’ is a strong word for it,” he said. “But I think you’d be wiser to lie. I am, after all, your judge and jury—at least for the next fifteen days.”
She winced. “I know it was wrong of me. But I would have been the most loyal and irreproachable wife since Esther. He never would have regretted it!”
He found himself momentarily baffled. “So you admit yourself a fortune hunter? That’s a start, I suppose.”
“Oh!” She showed him a look of surprise. “I didn’t want a fortune. Though of course”—her smile was fleeting—“I would not have objected to it.”
“Then what?”
“Only . . . safety, I suppose.”
“Naturally,” he said. “I’d imagine that your legion of victims might indeed pose a threat to you.”
She shook her head and looked back toward the low-beamed overhead. “Also,” she said, “I was lonely. And he seemed to like me. So very much. It couldn’t have been feigned! Not . . . all of it, at least.”
The ache in her voice had to be deliberate. No honest, well-bred woman would reveal such vulnerability to a perfect stranger—much less under these circumstances. “He didn’t like you that much,” he said, “or he wouldn’t have fled like a coward.”
Her breath caught audibly. He felt a pang, very much like regret.
Ah, but she was very good at her craft, wasn’t she? Alas for her, he had a great deal of experience with crocodile tears. His cousins specialized in them.
The silence lengthened. She was staring fixedly at the overhead, not even pretending to sleep.
He almost turned down the light again. But it came to him that discouraging her conversation was not to the point. He needed information from her. Moreover, if, by some insane chance, his cousin was implicated in this mess, then he would also need to secure her discretion. Building a measure of goodwill between them was the quickest way to ensure her cooperation.
“All right,” he said. “You wanted safety. Safety from whom?”
She frowned. “From nobody in particular. From the world. It’s not so friendly a place. Sir.”
Still refusing to address him by his title. This renewed evidence of defiance relieved him. He did not know how to deal with her when she seemed . . . fragile.
“I thought you said you wished to see the world,” he said. “Wasn’t that your reason for accepting your employer’s offer?”
“I did wish to see it. I still do.” She rolled over to face him, aglow now with earnestness, looking suddenly very young again, as sweet and simple and toothsome as a hot cross bun. “The Hagia Sophia—that was always on my list. It did not disappoint in the least. And Egypt—Mrs. Pennypacker had spoken of a trip to the Great Pyramids. I would have adored to see them. They look beyond beautiful—”
“Dusty,” he said. “Very dusty.”
“You’ve been?” She stared at him as though he’d just announced himself the Second Coming. “Were they wondrous?”
His cousins had complained endlessly of the heat, and his uncle had been drunk. But perhaps the pyramids would have been wondrous, had his companions been as enthused as she was.
Good God. “They’re tombs,” he said sharply. “Do you find graveyards romantic? Don’t answer that,” he added in disgust, for it was clear, by the look on her face, that she did.
“Oh, but I’m green with jealousy!” She flopped back down again. “If I were a man . . .” She hesitated, then sighed. “At any rate, one wishes for ever so many things. And perhaps I could strike out on my own . . . but I lack the courage.”
“Or the poor judgment,” he said, for she was right: a pretty girl with skin like cream and eyes as round as moons would need to take care when indulging her touristic curiosities.
It came to him with an unpleasant start that this conversation was absurd. They were not friends; it was not his business to counsel her. “Not that I consider you an exemplar of good judgment,” he added.
She glanced at him sidelong and said nothing.
The reaction felt unsatisfying. He wanted her to admit her wrongs. “So you thought the impostor could keep you safe, and allow you to indulge your fancies. And in return, you would give him . . . what?” Reminding himself that he did not believe this tale, he put some skepticism into his voice. “What might you provide that a peer of the realm would require?” Let her confess her shortcomings. Or let her boast and hear his reply. She was pretty, but he’d seen prettier women in his time.
But the question appeared to puzzle her. Frowning, she sat up. “My respect, I suppose. And my affection.” She met his eyes, her gaze startlingly direct. “My honesty and constancy. My unwavering support. I am a good woman, sir. A man would be lucky to take me to wife.”
“And modest to boot,” he said. But he felt oddly unnerved. In an attempt to dispel the feeling, he added, “These are not rare qualities, of course.”
But it was difficult to sound scathing when speaking a lie. With a family as flighty as his, he knew very well how rare such qualities might be. Honesty itself was worth
its weight in gold, and respect and constancy were more precious yet.
Clearly his mind was rotting for lack of sleep. She was a criminal. She knew exactly which lies to speak. Lies were her stock-in-trade.
Yet she chose strange lies, for all that. He had expected . . . something else from her. Not such insight. The virtues she named did not receive much glory in the wider world. He sometimes felt like the only man alive who understood the value of steadfast constancy . . .
Christ. She had addled him, all right. “Enough conversation,” he said. “Lie back and don’t make a sound now. I require my sleep.”
“Of course,” she said, and lay back.
“‘Of course, my lord.’”
But all she said was “Pleasant dreams to you.”
He bit his cheek against the damnedest urge to laugh. Bloody cheek.
Well. There was a quality one most definitely did not look for in a wife.
CHAPTER THREE
The scrape of the door startled her. Looking up from her book, Amanda winced at the bright light flooding the cabin. “Have you brought food?” she asked. The breakfast her captor had fetched earlier had been a very sorry affair—a hunk of waxen cheese and stale rolls of bread.
“Another hour yet,” he said as he ducked into the cabin. He looked windswept and aggravatingly virile, his golden skin glowing against his pale linen suit.
His dark eyes moved pointedly down her figure. “Is there no other gown in that valise of yours?” he asked. “One would think you’d want out of that one.”
She pretended not to hear this question, though she had spent a good hour after breakfast struggling to free herself from said gown—which, alas, buttoned up the back.
He prowled past her to take a seat on the stool. She tried to concentrate again on the book, but this miserable cabin was too small to allow blithe ignorance. Go away, she thought.
He shifted audibly, cloth rustling. She stole a glance at him. His adventures on deck had caused his color to darken by a degree.
He lifted a brow, as though challenging her to speak.
She turned back to her book. He had the air of a man who was bored and looking for entertainment. But he would not find it here. She would be glad to help him identify her former fiancé—indeed, she had passed happy minutes today imagining the satisfaction she would achieve by slapping that scoundrel’s face, once she located it. But that did not mean she felt any measure of kindness for this one.
“Stony silence,” he said. “Preferable to tears, at least.”
Yes, she felt quite pleased with herself on that account! Biting back a smile, she flipped to the next page.
“Though not nearly as persuasive when it comes to performing your innocence.”
She glared at the print. “Too much sun will addle the brain.”
“Too much reading will ruin the eyes,” he said, in a perfect parody of her tone.
She cast down the book and twisted to face him. “I thought you didn’t care for my protests. You must make up your mind.”
His black gaze lit on the books stacked by the bunk, then rose to the pile that rested beside her atop the mattress. “Mining in South America—that’s an ambitious choice.”
She hesitated. This seemed a more courteous tack for a conversation.
She decided to reward him with a nod. “The captain has curious taste in literature.” Mr. Papadopoulos was teaching himself English with the aid of books abandoned by his erstwhile passengers—among them a handbook of gambling strategies, a lurid tract about opium addiction, and two novels that Amanda felt certain would have been banned in Britain, had any company dared to print them. “I must say, if these books are representative, it’s a very shady lot that travels on this boat.”
“Ship,” he corrected. “Tell me, then: Do you mean to wear that gown the whole way to England?”
She realized she was scratching at the lace that trimmed her neckline. Snatching her hand back to her lap, she said, “Somebody left a guidebook to Italy. Malta sounds most picturesque! Listen here: ‘The isle of Malta rises precipitously from the sea in the form of a sterile rock . . . ’ All right, not that part, but a bit ahead . . . ‘The fields and gardens being enclosed by lofty walls and terraces of stone . . .’ ” She skipped onward. “‘Fruit is very abundant, especially oranges, lemons, and figs.’ I adore figs. So difficult to find a nice fig in London!”
He made a dismissive noise. “Did you not stop in La Valletta on the voyage out? Squalid little town.”
She cast down the book. “I begin to wonder if any locale on earth meets your high standards. Perhaps even Eden would disappoint you!”
He smiled at her. “Of course it would. All those animals would make for a great deal of muck. So much vegetation? The most dreadful humidity.”
“Blasphemy,” she said. But she found herself fighting down a grin. His humor was wickedly dry.
And he knew it. His own smile invited her to admire him. He was clearly accustomed to ladies’ admiration. Lord Arrogant!
The thought made her frown. She was inventing ever so many names for him . . . cad, blackguard, captor . . . largely because she could not quite bring herself to acknowledge his claim to be Viscount Ripton. But she could not deny that even the way he now lifted a brow smacked of privilege from the cradle.
“Never fear,” he said. “We’ll get you something new to wear in Malta. It’s only two days away, and you can . . .”
His sentence trailed off. He had glanced over at her valise, which—drat it—she had not bothered to close after her desperate struggle with the gown.
She did not lack for clothing: that was obvious.
His gaze swung back to her. “Or perhaps you linger in that dress for a reason?”
She felt herself flush. “I like it. No harm in that.”
“Naturally.” His head tipped as he studied her. Then comprehension broke over his face. “Ah. Buttons up the back, does it?”
A strangled noise escaped her. “Nonsense. As I said, I think it beautiful.”
He grinned, flashing improbably white teeth. “May I be of assistance?”
“No!” Alarmed now, she sprang to her feet. “I’m quite fine, I assure you!”
He made a visible attempt to look serious. “I’ll close my eyes, if you like.”
“You think me a base criminal! Why should I trust you to do the honorable thing?”
“No reason to trust me,” he agreed. He looked to be enjoying himself hugely. “Of course, were I an honorable man, that would not change no matter your occupation.”
“Says the man who threatened to drown me!”
“And still might,” he said. “But perhaps one of your other dresses would make for better swimming.”
She opened her mouth, then thought better of her retort. The longing to be in some fresh, clean gown overwhelmed her. This one itched terribly. Her calves still ached from the impressions made by the seed pearls, which had dug into her skin as she’d slept, and felt not much better when she sat.
She took a long breath. “You may not have this gown.” It was valuable. “I mean to keep it.”
“What a pity,” he said. “It would look so well on me, too.”
Her giggle escaped without permission. She remedied the slip by scowling at him.
He looked unfazed. “Have some sentimental value, does it? A beautiful reminder of the man who abandoned you.”
His mockery was salt in the wound. “No. I mean to sell it. It will fund me for a few weeks while I look for employment.”
He made a chiding noise, a click of his tongue. “Recall your role. You’re meant to be heartbroken.”
“No, I never pretended that. And while I would very much like the leisure to be shattered by my fiancé’s betrayal, what I would like even more would be to avoid starvation once I arrive in London.”
For a brief space of silence, he frowned at her. And then, with a shrug, he said, “Then you’d certainly best remove the gown. Further wear will only
damage its value.”
He had an inarguable point. And the gown itched too badly for her to continue to deny his logic. “Very well. But you must blindfold yourself,” she added quickly. “Otherwise I won’t trust you not to look.”
He rolled his eyes. “You have a very high opinion of your own charms, Miss . . .”
Surprise flickered across his face—and hers, too, probably. After their conversation last night, it felt strange to realize that he did not know her name.
“Miss Amanda Thomas.” Sheer habit made her offer her hand. “How do you do.”
He laughed. “How ludicrously formal. Miss Thomas.”
She withdrew her hand. “Very true. Far more fitting if I were to throw something at you!”
“Still playing the innocent,” he observed. “Mind you, I laugh because I’m quite certain that your name is neither Amanda nor Thomas.”
“Oh, is that so?” She gave vent to her own sarcasm now, for it irked her to be continually accused of wrongdoing when she was, in fact, the victim. “Pray tell, what do you think my name might be?”
“Something absurd,” he said. “Clementine, perhaps.”
“Clementine!” She gaped at him. “Do I look like a Clementine to you?”
He shrugged. “Frilly, feminine, too pretty for your own good—yes, indeed; I think the name fits perfectly.”
Too pretty for her own good? Despite herself, she felt a stir of gratification.
Which she quashed immediately. “You’re a rogue,” she said, stomping over to her valise. “I’m sure you’ve charmed countless women in your time—”
“Countless?” His amused voice came from behind her as she rummaged through her clothing in search of a serviceable blindfold. “You’ll be glad to know that I was educated at Cambridge. I can count very high indeed.”
Braggart. She yanked out a black stocking. Something went flying, landing with a clatter on the deck behind her.
Amanda turned at the same time that he came off his stool, and they collided. “Oof !” Rubbing the crown of her head, she glared up at him. “I take it back—if you’re as clumsy in a ballroom, the number might be within the grasp of a toddler.”
Your Wicked Heart Page 3
