“I do not wish.”
She had nothing to say to a man who had all but ignored the management of his holdings in Antigua, who had cut her father, who had probably already sent word to have Edward removed from his post. The only possible pleasure such a trip could hold would be the pleasure of telling her grandfather that his bosom friend, Lord Nathaniel, was dead.
“Then you must consider yourself my guest while you wait, my dear,” Mrs. Beauchamp offered.
Stepping carefully over the puddle of fabric around her feet, Tempest came to stand in front of her. Mrs. Beauchamp withdrew the letter and handed it to Tempest, as if she recognized there would be doubts over her claim about its contents. But the note said no more or less than had been reported.
Of course, that did not preclude some subterfuge involved in its composition. Tempest returned it to her. “I thought you of all people would understand why I need to go home. For many years now, since my father grew ill and died, I have been responsible for the oversight of our family business. Like you, I have been fortunate to have a reliable manager to assist me—as you know, a woman’s opinion is not always heeded in such matters.” With a chastened look, Mrs. Beauchamp nodded. “But I have been gone nearly two months already. A delay such as this will keep me from home for almost half a year. I cannot stay away so long.”
“I do understand, my dear,” Mrs. Beauchamp began. “Still, I—”
Her words were interrupted by a sudden flurry of barking in the corridor, to which Caliban had been relegated during the dressmaker’s visit. From farther away came a deep rumble of greeting. So Andrew had returned from his jaunt into the City.
Tempest was not conscious of having turned toward the sound of his voice until she felt Mrs. Beauchamp’s hand on her arm, reclaiming her attention. The glimmer of sympathy had not left the older woman’s eyes, but it had shifted slightly, almost as if she realized that more than their business interests bonded them.
“Are you sure there’s nothing to keep you here, my dear?” she asked. “Nothing at all?”
Was it so obvious, then, the way Tempest seemed to be as attuned to Andrew’s presence and absence as the dog? Although his voice had been muffled by tight walls and heavy doors and plush carpets, it still had sent a spark of awareness along her skin and up her spine.
She had imagined herself prepared for the memory of his insistent touch, his wicked kiss. But she had not been prepared for the way those memories seemed determined to slip from her control. The way they came to her in her sleep, or in the last drowsy moments of the day, or on the edge of wakefulness just before dawn. When she was not quite mistress of her mind, her heart—or sometimes even her hands.
And she had been less prepared still for the way the memories of the passion they had shared seeped into every other encounter with him—how they inflected his roguish smile, or colored the expression in those sharp green eyes. How that one night together had changed the way she thought about his determination, his bravery. His grief. Her realization that she had been wrong about who he was—and her growing suspicion he might even be wrong about himself.
Now she might have four more weeks in his house. Four more weeks with him.
Her hand smoothed down the front of her dress, over her still-flat belly.
If she stayed that long, she might have to stay forever.
Pulling away from Mrs. Beauchamp, she forced herself to think instead of Harper’s Hill, of Omeah and all the rest. It would not do to give in to temptation. How could she live with herself if she put her own desires above others’ desperate need?
“No, there’s nothing to keep me here,” she insisted with a resolute shake of her head, then moved to pick up the velvet cloak from the floor. Despite its soft, seductive weight along her arm, she resisted the impulse to pet it.
If she had to, she would sell it and book her own passage back to the West Indies, where such a garment would, thankfully, never be needed.
Chapter 14
Andrew had never been one for confined spaces. Aboard ship, he had always preferred the open deck to the four walls of his cabin. But tonight, the library appealed to him. The butter-soft leather of the chairs, the scent of old books, the darkness. Dinner had ended hours ago, and when he had retreated to this silent place, the sky had still been streaked by the sunset. Now it was night, but he had not bothered to call for a lamp. The fire crackling in the hearth was enough. After all, he had not come here to read.
With one fingertip he traced the brim of the otherwise untouched glass that rested against his knee. He hadn’t come to drown his sorrows, either. It would have been sullying the memory of his stepfather, whose private study this had always been. For that reason, he hoped his mother would hesitate to venture across its threshold. He doubted Tempest even knew the room existed. And so he had bought himself a few hours of quiet.
It would be a lie to call what he felt here peace, however.
At seventeen, with an enemy to best and the sea before him, it had seemed a simple thing to run away from this life, to reject everything for which Daniel Beauchamp had stood. At eight and twenty, he was finding it rather more difficult to persuade himself that he must leave. Not that he had any particular desire to divide the rest of his life between this room and the offices on Mincing Lane. But the comforts of this house were a strange sort of anchor to his soul.
Which was precisely the reason why he had to go. Staying would only make matters worse. Inevitably, he would run his stepfather’s business into the ground and break his mother’s heart. And then there was Tempest, whose proximity was about to shatter his sanity—
The squawk of the door opening brought his ruminations up short. He wondered that Mrs. Long, or even Williams, had neglected the greasing of the hinge. But perhaps Daniel had wanted it that way? A sort of alarm if anyone invaded his sanctuary?
From his place by the fire, Andrew could not see the door, but he did not rise or even speak to whoever had entered. It could be only one of two people, after all, and he would know which in a moment. It was bad enough to catch himself hoping for one in particular.
Worse still when a spark of anticipation passed through him at the discovery his hopes had been realized.
Tempest crossed the corner of his vision on her way to the bookshelves lining the walls, oblivious to his presence. In the dim light, she was forced to lean close to peer at the titles, straining to make them out. The sight of her in breeches had had its own appeal, but it could not compete with what he felt as he watched her new gown skim her curves and cling to her hips as she climbed a few steps up the library ladder to reach the higher shelves, seeking something to read.
“You’ll find very little with which to amuse yourself here, I’m afraid,” he said.
Momentarily frozen, she clung to the ladder without turning to face him. “I am not so frivolous as to require nothing but amusement, Captain Corrvan,” she replied after a moment when she had recovered from her surprise and picked her way carefully back to solid ground. “My father saw to it that my education was quite well-rounded.”
“Of course he did,” Andrew said, rising before she could move toward him. The last time he had been sitting in a chair and she had come to stand beside him, all manner of trouble had ensued. “And as a result you will no doubt fare better in this room than I ever have. I was forever hoping for adventure stories or books of travels. Imagine my disappointment.” He pulled a random volume from a shelf near where she stood and held it out to her.
“An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations by Adam Smith. Volume the second. Fascinating, I’m sure,” she said, taking it from him and returning it to its place. “But if I am to begin, it really ought to be with the first volume. I would not wish to lose the thread of the argument.” Her hands and face were spots of light in the darkness of the room and against her gown.
When he had first seen her tonight, he had thought she wore mourning, perhaps one of his mother’s old dresses made over t
o fit her. Under the blaze of candles in the dining room, however, the fabric had taken on a life of its own, shimmering and exotic, and he had recognized it for what it really was—not black, but the deep blue of a starless night sky stretched over a silent sea. Such a color ought to have rendered her wan, unappealing, almost invisible.
But it did not, of course. It darkened the blue of her eyes and made her pale skin glow like alabaster, and he caught ripples of warm ivory and cool blue as her chest rose and fell in the flickering firelight. When he looked back over all the circumstances under which he had seen her now, bedraggled and seasick and worse, he was forced to acknowledge to himself that nothing could ever make her unappealing to him.
“May I offer you a drink?” he asked, nodding toward his glass.
“Irish whiskey, I suppose?”
He lifted one corner of his lips in a sort of smile. “You are familiar with all my vices, it would seem.”
“Mr. Beals gave me a sip of it aboard the Fair Colleen. To dull the pain in my hands.”
“I see. And how did you enjoy your first taste of uisce beatha, the water of life, mo cailín?” The long-neglected language slipped over his tongue with surprising ease. “It was your first, I presume?”
“I think on the whole, Captain Corrvan,” she said, studying his expression through those extraordinary eyes of hers, “I much prefer rum.”
A bark of laughter escaped his lips before he could stop it. She had been aptly named, this one. She loved to trouble the waters.
“We’re not at sea, Tempest. You needn’t call me captain,” he said, resting his glass on the mantel.
“What, then?”
He hesitated. How foolish to want to hear his name on her lips. How dangerous to encourage further intimacy between them.
When he did not answer, she said, “I suppose you must accustom yourself to no longer being called captain by anyone.”
Almost of its own volition, the glass spun from his fingertips and rattled onto the stone. “What would make you say that?”
“Why, this,” she replied with a glance into the dim corners of his stepfather’s library—a room well suited to stand in for all he’d so unwillingly inherited from the man.
Against his better judgment, he stepped closer. “One thing only keeps me here, Tempest. And when I’m assured that you do not require the protection of my name, I shall return to sea.” He spoke the last words with sudden confidence. As he’d left the office this morning, Farrow had reluctantly informed him of an eastbound route in need of a seasoned captain. Even given his prior misadventures, he felt certain he would do far less damage aboard that ship than if he stayed in London.
“The protection of your name?” A skeptical laugh burst from her lips. “Please do not postpone your plans on my behalf. The only assistance I require from you is in finding a ship to take me home as soon as possible.” She returned to her study of the bookshelves, although he felt certain her eyes saw nothing of the titles over which they skimmed—not least because the fire’s uncertain light made reading the embossed letters on the dark leather spines almost impossible. “Your mother tells me no Beauchamp ship is sailing to that part of the world for several weeks, and I will not brook such an unnecessary delay.”
“Unnecessary?” He moved closer still, trapping her between his body and the bookcase; one forearm rested on the lowest shelf, almost but not quite touching her. “Are you certain of that, then?” he asked, dipping his head to breathe the words into her ear, wishing somehow he could make her share his sense that the bond between them was born of more than a mistake.
Ducking away from his lips, she slipped from his half embrace. “I am certain I can take care of myself.”
He let her go. “I think you know that’s not how this works.”
“Why not? You once called yourself irresponsible. Though at the time I did not believe the label to be entirely apt, if you really intend to abandon your mother and the business your stepfather hoped you would manage, you have now proven it to my satisfaction.” Her short curls gleamed gold in the firelight as she tossed her head to underscore her words. “I, on the other hand, mean to fulfill my responsibilities. All of them,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest and lifting her chin. “Whatever they may be.”
“You mark no difference, then, between the fate of a business and the fate of a child?” he countered.
“A business, be it shipping company or sugar plantation, is made up of people. People who depend on the guidance of a leader who truly cares for their well-being. In that, it is very little different from a family. If you are unwilling to take on the responsibility for one, do not ask me to believe you will take seriously your responsibilities toward the other. Why, for all I know, you might have left a string of—of bastards,” her voice dropped to a whisper on that scandalous word, “in every Caribbean harbor.”
“I—” he began, but to such a charge, what defense could he offer? He could not say there had been no other women. He would not claim he had always been careful. And he certainly should not confess that everything about his encounter with Tempest had been somehow different from any other in his rather checkered past.
“If you take me to my grandfather, aren’t you afraid he’ll demand you marry me?”
“Not as afraid as you seem to be,” he tossed back, unwisely.
“Do you wish to know what I think?” she asked, but did not wait for his assent or denial. “You cannot bear to be tied down to Beauchamp Shipping Company, but you also cannot bear the thought of setting aside a fortune. So you have decided to get mine instead, imagining it will require less work on your part. You wish to take me to Yorkshire against my will because you’re hoping my grandfather will force a marriage. You’re no different from all the rest.”
Although her voice was surprisingly calm, her words fell upon him as if she had picked up the fireplace tongs and tossed a hot coal in his direction.
Rounding the corner of his stepfather’s massive mahogany desk, he jerked open the drawers until he found what he was looking for: a small metal cashbox, from which the household expenses and the servants’ wages were paid. To his surprise and relief, the tiny brass key was still fitted to its lock. Fumbling with the catch, Andrew at last pried it open and scraped his fingers through the contents, pulling out a wad of banknotes whose denominations he could not read in the darkened room. Then he marched to stand before Tempest and, taking her hand in his free one, thrust the crumpled, jumbled mess of paper and coins into her palm.
“Go,” he growled, knowing that if the firelight caught his face, she would see that a part of him was praying for her to rebel against his command, as she always had before.
Wide-eyed, she looked up at him, not down at her unexpected windfall. A few of the coins slipped through her grasp and tinkled onto the hearthstone. She seemed as if she might speak, then he heard the crinkle of paper as her fingers curled around the banknotes, and in another moment she was gone, darting from the room as if she feared he might change his mind.
So, it was done. He waited until he could hear her footsteps on the stairs before turning to leave himself. Caesar was likely already asleep. No matter. He could pack his own sea chest, had done it for years. He didn’t know when that ship was bound for India, but no matter. By this time tomorrow, he would be off, one way or another.
He had not counted on meeting his mother on the threshold, however. “Oh, Andrew. What have you done?” she asked. There was a tremor in her soft voice, but no accusation. How much had she overheard?
“Not at all what I set out to do, Mama,” he said, running a surprisingly shaky hand through his hair. “Not at all.”
“You mean to say—or rather to avoid saying—that you ought to marry the girl, I suppose?” she asked.
He strode back toward the fireplace, dodging his mother’s eye. “I think we might all be better served to hope and pray, as Miss Holderin herself obviously does, that a marriage will not prove absolutely necessary.”
Despite the plush carpet, he could hear his mother’s toe tapping. “You ought to insist.”
“It cannot have escaped your notice that she is not terribly susceptible to insistence, Mama.” Snatching his abandoned glass from the mantel, he tossed back its contents in a single swallow, forgetting that he had poured out the only thing he could find: Daniel’s exquisite French brandy. To one craving the punishing burn of whiskey, its unexpected mellowness was regrettable. “Had I realized that from the first, I might have left her in Antigua, quite confident in her ability to fend off a most persistent suitor,” he said, twisting the empty glass in his hands, watching the way the firelight gleamed through its faceted sides. “She is a great heiress, you see. Very much in demand.”
His mother brushed aside his explanation. “I have some idea of who she is. But you have no need of her fortune. She ought to have no misgivings about you on that score.”
“Perhaps not,” Andrew said with a chary glance about the room. “Although her outlook on the matter is rather more sanguine than yours.”
“How’s that?”
“She believes me entirely motivated by money, but rightly doubts what you still believe: that I intend to accept my—this inheritance,” he said, gesturing with the cut-crystal glass, a symbol of the wealth his stepfather had accrued. “If I had wanted any part of Beauchamp Shipping, I might have had it long ago. I mean to leave on the morrow.”
“I see.” She plucked the tumbler from his fingers and returned with it to the sideboard where the decanter sat, still unstoppered. He heard liquid slosh into the glass and watched in amazement as she raised it to her lips and swallowed. “You accused me once of ignoring your father’s influence on your behavior, your character,” she whispered, her voice roughened by the sear of the unaccustomed liquor in her throat. “But when you, too, desert those who most need you, I can hardly deny it.”
The words stung far worse than the blow across his cheek had done, but they were no less deserved. “You will all be better off without me, I assure you.”
To Tempt an Heiress Page 17
