by Susanne Lord
He was familiar because he looked just the way she imagined her beloved explorer would look if she could invent him. Hair that was many shades of blond, and never—no never—thinning. Easily, the thickest hair of all the men in the room—though it was a bit long for fashion. Her heart panged tenderly for the lock curling at his collar.
And those were just the right shoulders—slightly too broad and muscled for his frame—because she did so love a man’s shoulders. And that face…
Well, she had never assembled his features so perfectly before. But for whatever this mood was, with its corresponding “just get on with it” expression, she would only choose this square chin, stern brow, and piercing blue eyes to form this handsome, heroic face.
A heroic and somewhat irritated face.
She dropped her gaze. Goodness, she must not stare moon-eyed at the man. What nonsense had she prattled on about before?
Why, why, had she mentioned the mutton?
“I wonder how you were able to read them, Miss Baker?”
Lord Spencer’s voice recalled her to the present. “Do forgive me. What did you say?”
Lord Spencer—Hugh, as he had asked to be called—flicked an uneasy glance to Mr. Repton and reset his smile more tightly. “The reports, Miss Baker. The Geographical Society is exclusive to men. How did your little person conspire to read them?”
“Ben is a member and retrieved them for me.” Charlotte beamed at Mr. Repton, willing him to look at her, but he seemed to prefer scowling at his boots. “Or most of them anyway. I have not read the final installment.”
“Nor should you,” Mr. Repton said.
“But I must.”
“There is nothing in them of worth to a lady.”
“Nothing of…?” But he appeared entirely in earnest. How could he not know what his writing meant to others? To her? “But you are too modest. The reports are full of sound and color and feeling! When I read them, it is just as Aristotle wrote—the soul never thinks without a picture—”
“Miss Baker—”
“It is not my mind that thrills at the adventure—”
“Miss Baker—”
“—but my very soul—”
His head reared, passion sparking in his eyes. “Then you see what you wish to see.”
Her breath caught in her throat. Those intense eyes, the flushed cheekbones, the hot, panting breath laving her cheek. The man was magnificent!
His words were utter nonsense but he delivered them with such glorious conviction.
Another lady might have been chastened and turned shy in the face of this growling man. But she had always been a bit more…well, buoyant than most.
And his chest was heaving so attractively within that awful coat.
Unable to repress it, she smiled hugely and his glare faltered. “Now I am all the more curious why our perceptions should differ,” she said softly.
His eyes widened and she remembered herself. “Would anyone care for more tea?” She reached for the pot. “Though perhaps it does not refresh. I cannot credit how warm the parlor is.”
All the men were instantly solicitous of her comfort.
All except for Mr. Repton, who had taken a firm grip of his temples.
Doubt trickled over her. Had she said something to distress him? Were the memories of his travels painful?
Perhaps they were. It appeared he had been injured, though he limped only a very little. She had watched him walk a few paces, and his back was straight above his slim hips and hard, sculpted backside. The memory of which warmed her already-heated cheeks.
She could not recall ever noting the shape and muscularity of a man’s bottom before, but there it was.
Quite a vivid picture, really.
She pressed a napkin between her damp palms. The parlor was too close, but then she had not expected most of these gentlemen, as they were not of a society she encouraged. Only Lord Spencer was Upper Class Proper; the rest only Upper Middle.
Only Lord Spencer. After three seasons…
How odd…how odd and remarkable and wonderful that none of these men mattered in the least now. Not now that she’d made a discovery all her own: William—no, Will. A fitting name for one who made his own place in the world, Society and lineage and rules be hanged.
Here was the husband she yearned for. Not a mere aristocrat but the Talk of London. And quite literally, the man of her dreams.
She angled a glance at his profile. Yes…the very picture.
If only these men would leave. If only he would look at her again. She leaned close. “Mr. Repton, I—”
“His Grace, the Duke of Iddlesleigh,” Mr. Penny announced from the door.
The men swiveled their heads as Iddlesleigh entered and Charlotte stiffened with surprise. And shame.
Thank goodness he had not found her alone. But honestly! An unmarried duke ought to have a better use of his time than to always be hunting for his next mistress. Undoubtedly he would have requested her favors and she would have declined with all the humble gratitude a powerful man like him would expect. She may be common-born but she was no one’s cocotte.
Not his, not Lord Welston’s, nor Misters Ware’s, Adkins’s, or Playfair’s. She almost suspected the men of wagering on who might win her virtue as often as the stupid offer was made.
“Dearest Charlotte.” Iddlesleigh brushed his lips over her fingers. “I see from this entrenched party of admirers, I am shamefully tardy. Will you forgive me?”
She removed her hand, mindful not to yank it from his touch. “You are always forgiven, Your Grace.”
The duke hoisted an imperious brow at Will, who stared out the window as if watching a tedious bit of theater. It was obvious that Iddlesleigh desired Will’s seat and expected him to surrender it to his betters.
It was not obvious to Will.
The duke paused pointedly until Lord Spencer surrendered his seat and the duke sat. His Grace turned to Will. “I am not acquainted with you, sir.”
Charlotte touched Will’s sleeve and a hard muscle jumped under her fingers, thrilling her. “This is Mr. Repton, Your Grace. Do you not recall that we spoke of him at the musicale last week?”
The duke’s eyes sharpened. “Indeed. The plant hunter.”
“Your Grace,” Will mumbled at Iddlesleigh and stood abruptly. “Miss Baker, thank you for the tea. If you’ll excuse me.”
No! No, no, no! He could not leave! “Yes, of course.” She stood to offer her hand in farewell but Will was already at the door. Faced with the delicate challenge of chasing after a man with all correctness, she began with a bright smile for the benefit of the room and called after him. “Allow me to show you to his study.”
Will stopped short at the sound of her voice and let her precede him with a huff of breath. She blinked at the sound. Did he truly not like her?
At the door, he lifted his plant case and walked to the center of the hall, his head swiveling from one closed door to the next. Slowly, he turned back with what was becoming a familiar frown. That could not be his usual countenance. It was horribly out of place on the Mr. Repton she knew.
“Will you direct me, Miss Baker?”
“I am sorry to have kept you—”
“Miss Baker—”
“—but you must know how ardently I—”
“Thank you.” Will held up a staying hand, then—looking embarrassed at the uncivil gesture—dropped it. “I do thank you, but…”
His eyes caught on something behind her. Patty stood at the parlor door. Her maid really was a lax chaperone; she did not even bother to look up from her novel.
Will shook his head and whatever he muttered was too low to hear. Not that she could attend. His jawline was magnificent. Would it appear so even when he was not clenching it?
“Miss Baker, I’m sure you understand my eagerness in seeing your brother-in-law, having matters of actual importance to discuss.”
Matters of actual importance. Oh dear. She really ought to take offense at
that. Very likely she would, later.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured.
* * *
Blast it! God—! Save him from virgins!
He’d hurt her feelings. Of course he had. He was a yak’s ass. A steaming pile of horse apples. A maggot in the—
“Jamie?” Miss Baker turned to the footman. “Mr. Repton was shown to the wrong room. Would you see him to Ben’s study?”
The footman’s lips bunched with smothered laughter and Will stared over the boy’s head. What matter if the lad was amused by the picture he made as one of her callers? God’s sake, the woman attracted the likes of a duke.
He had changed. He’d always been patient before. And slow to anger. And kind to women.
But damn it, weren’t servants supposed to be helpful?
“Yes, miss.” The sniggering footman set off down the hall. “This way, sir, if you please.”
Will inclined his head to Miss Baker, letting his eyes touch that beautiful face one last time. That beautiful, pouting—damn it—sad little face.
He bowed stiffly. “Thank you…for the tea, Miss Baker.”
Her eyes shot to his and her brilliant smile was blinding him again. “You’re welcome, Mr. Repton. And please do call anytime. Anytime at all.”
He stared. Did she just invite him to call? On her?
Perplexed, he walked away but something made him stop and look again.
Still there. Still beaming.
There was definitely something wrong with her.
And yet…
“Why?” he heard himself ask, frowning at his own stupidity.
Her head tilted in question. A trait of hers, then. A bloody adorable one. “Why did you read my reports?” he asked brusquely.
“You are a hero.”
“Right,” he muttered. “Good-bye, Miss—”
“But then because—” She glanced back at the parlor of admirers and, for the first time, her face wore a look of uncertainty. “Because I felt you were writing to me. And to me alone, and if I did not read every report as soon as they arrived, then you would be all alone. And not just feel alone, but truly…be alone.”
“I wasn’t alone,” he blurted.
But you were, a voice in his mind hissed. You were alone at the end.
“It is silly, I know.” Her blush deepened, but still she smiled. “Everyone tells me I am prone to fanciful notions. I realize those who actually experience have no need for fantasy. I am endeavoring to be such a person.”
She eyed him expectantly—hopefully—but he was at a complete loss. With a quick bow, he turned and left her in the hall.
Thank God the study was empty. He set down the plants and massaged the tension in his neck. At twenty-eight, he’d stared down the sheer wall of an eight-hundred-foot gorge but was shaken from a minute’s proximity to one happy…confusing chatterbox of a woman.
There was much to get used to again. Crowds, comforts, women. He and the crew had subsisted on the crudest food and meanest shelter, growing tough as the weathered hides they wore on their backs.
Yet rugged as they all were, he’d been the only one to survive.
He breathed deep. The study was cool and dim, the table topped with horticultural books and a number of terrariums filled with exotic orchids. No doubt Ben Paxton had built those himself.
Good. Marriage to a countess hadn’t stripped the man of his interests.
Steps approached from the hall and the towering Ben Paxton strode in. “Will! Damn good to see you. Welcome back.”
“It’s been a long time.” Shaking his hand, Will was struck by the smile Ben wore. It was strange enough that a botanist had wed a countess, but the Ben Paxton he remembered working alongside his father was a man who spoke little and smiled even less. Marriage had granted Ben happiness at last.
Would he be unwilling to invest, then? An ambitious man would aid his return; a family man would not.
Ben gestured Will into a chair. “Sorry to keep the famous ‘Chinese Will’ waiting.” He chuckled at Will’s grimace. “Sorry. I confess. I read the series in the Illustrated News to my son. You’re his hero.”
“Best he not meet me in the flesh, then. Congratulations on your family.”
A proud light lit Ben’s eyes. “My son was the reason for my delay. I was looking for him.”
Will tensed, fighting the urge to scan the room. “Did he find his way back to the nursery?”
“The nursery? Oh no, he’s needed in the ladies’ parlor with his Aunt Charlotte. It’s Sunday, after all.”
“Sunday?”
“Right, sorry. Charlotte’s friends call every day, but Sunday, the bachelors visit.” His voice lowered with good-natured weariness. “A receiving day for her suitors and she’s using my son to help choose her husband. It’s one of her tests. So tell me—”
“Tests? I don’t understand.”
“You know, tests. For a husband. Is he easy with children? Does he esteem his mother? Are his trousers too long or too short?”
Will checked the length of his own pants, then frowned at his own stupidity. “How is that a test?”
“Evidently the wrong inseam signals a defect in personality. And since she planted that seed in my head, ironically it’s proving true more often than not. Charlotte has new tests every week.” Ben seemed to consider what he’d said. “New tests and new suitors, actually. It makes me wonder if these men aren’t testing her right back.”
Will frowned in incomprehension.
“Because she was born common,” Ben explained. “And uncommonly beautiful, like my wife, Lucy. Did your father not tell you of the Bakers?”
“I assumed the family was of some rank.”
“Their father was a schoolmaster. My wife married the earl very young, but he died before Lucy was…well, polished. But Charlotte was of an age to be schooled. She’s been bred for a coronet, but I’m not certain these worthies can overlook her blood.”
“That’s bollocks.”
“Yes…well.” Ben grinned without humor. “That’s Society.”
Will squared his shoulders. He had to stem the course of this discussion before it devolved further into aristocratic nonsense. And before he began imagining how many of Miss Baker’s tests he could pass.
“Have you heard I’m to return?” Will asked.
The smile slid from Ben’s face. “Return?”
“Another expedition into China.”
Ben’s reaction was the same as the others’—disbelief, followed by the same careful questions. “Your parents would rather you not go, I imagine?”
The question triggered an ill-timed frown. He’d give anything to spare his parents their fears, but he had no choice but to bluster this out. “You know my father, Ben. He’s never wandered more than twenty miles from home. He doesn’t comprehend how vast the world is.
“There are varieties of plants in Asia you and I have never seen or read of. Dozens, hundreds.” Will rose to retrieve the carrion plants. “I found these specimens near the Burma plantations. They’re remarkable. The taxonomists at Kew are still struggling over them—”
Ben raised a staying hand. “It sounds extraordinary, Will. But you’ve spent a decade collecting. Why not let others go with your counsel?”
“I know the language, the people, the areas to avoid—”
“Most of China and the whole of Tibet is an area to avoid. You nearly died. Your entire crew was lost.”
“That attack was an aberration. The massacre—” Will stopped, seeing Ben stiffen. He’d forgotten. Some couldn’t bear to listen. His family, his friends, couldn’t listen—not without bracing themselves as Ben was doing now.
Strange then how the rest of England thirsted for every bloody detail.
Will sat back in his chair. “The men and I trekked hundreds of miles, season after season, recording every discovery, and in the end…” All dead. “It’s unfinished.”
Ben nodded slowly. “And you believe you have luck enough for the retu
rn?”
Luck…no, not nearly enough. But if he couldn’t persuade Ben, what hope did he have to raise the money? He’d been rejected by a dozen already.
“I’ve no use for luck.” Will set his face in a careful mask before his next lie. “There’s no plan to enter Tibet.”
“And your injuries?”
Will didn’t even blink. “Healed. And healing.”
Ben’s eyes returned to the case and the mysterious plants within, and Will leaned in. “Can I count on you for one hundred?”
“That doesn’t seem enough.”
“You’re not the only one I’m asking.”
He might have asked Ben for a thousand times that amount, but he was a friend of his father’s and there were too many risks to guarantee any return on his investment.
But Christ, he needed a bit of luck soon. The winds would change; he needed to be on a ship by the end of August, and with the money in hand to boot.
“I’m torn, Will. I’m meant to be loyal to your father. How can I lend aid that would enable his son to sail from England?”
Because they’re waiting.
Will breathed, deep and steady, trying to hold the dark memories at bay.
He never could.
“I have to return, Ben. It’s like the land takes a bite of your soul.” The ground was thirsty. “There’s nothing like the discovery of a hidden world—” Where are the children? “Hidden and waiting to be found. And you find yourself all alone in nature, in a world so vast—”
Dead. All dead.
Will clasped his hands to keep them from shaking. “A world so vast, even God can’t find you.”
Ben was silent, and Will lowered his gaze to hide the darkness the man would see there.
“I’ll need a few days, Will. I’m sorry to say I’m undecided on the matter.”
This is how the conversation would always play. A less tactful man would’ve said it aloud. Undecided because he nearly succumbed to fever. Undecided because of his injuries.
Undecided because miraculously, inexplicably, suspiciously, he was the lone survivor.
It had been a bitter day when he learned he could no longer count on the patronage of the East India Company after all he’d endured. His trauma made him an undesirable investment and they had no qualms over saying so.
