What a Lady Craves

by Ashlyn Macnamara

  Nearly two years? So he’d had time to meet his wife, and yet he’d spoken of Henrietta to a servant. She tightened her grip on the smooth teakwood of the box, as if that might steady her. “Acquired you?” she said to keep the conversation going as much as anything. “What an odd way of expressing it.”

  He placed a hand over his heart and dipped his head. “It is our way. Mr. Sanford did a great deed. He received me as a reward. I must always conduct myself to the same standard as he has shown or risk bringing shame on my family.”

  “Good heavens.” That Alexander had performed some good deed or other hardly surprised her—but something so great that he’d been rewarded with a servant? Another human being? “Do you think you might tell me about it?”

  “It was simple enough. He saved the life of Raja Nilmani’s son. The boy sickened, and Mr. Sanford gave him your English medicine and saved his life. His poor cousin did not fare so well.”

  “And you do not resent being given as a gift?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw, the barest flicker of movement. “It is an honor for me to serve such a man as Mr. Sanford.”

  “I … I suppose …” Did she dare ask? She might as well, for she had nothing to lose. “I imagine the two of you have had a chance to become friends along the way. That is, if he talked about me.”

  Another quiver passed over the man’s cheek—nothing so mundane as a suppressed smile. While his expression remained firm, she was left with the impression he knew exactly why she was probing him.

  “He admires you very much, miss. I would wish for him to continue to do so. Thus you ought to return his box without fail.”

  With another bow, he took himself off, leaving Henrietta with her back pressed to the wall for support. Satya may have relented for now, but she couldn’t tamp out the feeling he’d be watching her.

  Closely.

  Chapter Eleven

  Alexander slouched behind the late Lord Epperley’s desk, fingering his glass of brandy. He’d sent a note off to the Marianne’s captain, but he’d never been one to wait patiently. And he needed to contact Battencliffe. Good Lord, what had happened between him and Lind? For Lind had taken himself off directly, declining a drink or further conversation. Based on his behavior, Battencliffe required a warning.

  With a grimace, Alexander tossed back a swallow of brandy. If only he weren’t still in pain, he might borrow his aunt’s carriage and pay an old friend a visit, but it was also getting late in the day for that. He wouldn’t be home by nightfall, and something told him he ought not leave his daughters alone.

  Not until he located his wife’s jewelry box, and not until he found out who had rattled Tilly. A feeling in his gut, like a lead slug, told him the two were connected. Treasure, the man had said, according to Tilly, and the stranger had most likely come out of India. There was nothing special about Marianne’s collection of jewels. Merely various trinkets she’d collected in India or gifts from Harry Johnstone or her father. Costly, certainly, but nothing beyond what any wealthy society lady might own.

  Certainly nothing worth chasing halfway round the world for.

  Could the treasure be the box itself? Next to Nilmani’s riches, such an object was a trifle, enough that he’d presented it to Marianne’s father. A small token of his esteem, also nothing worth the bother of crossing two oceans to recover. Or so it seemed.

  A memory surfaced from a dusty corner of Alexander’s brain. A hellish morning a year ago, just before tragedy struck. Marianne’s father had emerged from her dressing room. Upon spotting Alexander in the corridor, he started and muttered, “Just making sure everything is where it belongs.” Alexander had thought the statement odd at the time, but never until now had made the connection. Yet in his mind’s eye, he saw it now, clearly. That damnable box lying open on the dressing table.

  If only he’d known. A week later, Foster was dead.

  Three months afterward, Alexander found Marianne’s lifeless body in their home. From that point, he couldn’t have left the country fast enough. But if he’d pulled the danger after him, well … He’d have to see to his daughters and keep them safe. He’d have to protect his aunt, his mother, his sisters—Henrietta, too, if it came to that. As for himself, he mattered much less these days.

  “Papa!”

  Francesca stood in the doorway to the study, a broad grin dimpling her cheeks. She trotted over and launched herself at him. Doing his best to shake off his mood, he set his glass aside, and caught his daughter in a loose hug to protect his bruised ribs.

  “And what have you been up to?” For good measure, he poked her gently in the belly, eliciting a giggle.

  “George told us about meeting the king.”

  “George? Oh, you mean Henrietta. Her brother’s name is George.”

  “But Lady Epperley calls her George.”

  “And you should call her by her proper name.” Actually, he ought to teach his daughters to call her Miss Upperton, as befitted a woman of her station. The girls may have run a bit wild in India, but his duty included raising them according to the expectations of polite society.

  Damned if his aunt wasn’t right. He really ought to remarry, to give the girls a mother.

  “Where’s your sister?”

  At his question, Helena appeared in the doorway. Her eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of her younger sister in his arms.

  “Ah, there you are.” He held out a hand. “Come along, then.”

  She stepped into the room, taking her time. Her gaze never left her sister.

  “And what have you done today?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t volunteer the information herself.

  Helena reached out a finger and traced the pattern etched in his glass. “We’ve been with Henrietta.”

  “She’s going to teach us how to be ladies!” Francesca said.

  “She hasn’t said anything of the kind,” Helena returned.

  “But she could. She knows all about it. She showed me how to make my bow.” Francesca clambered out of his arms to demonstrate. Holding out her skirts, she made an exaggerated curtsey, nearly toppling over in the effort.

  “Careful there.”

  “You need to practice,” Helena huffed.

  “Can you do it better?” Francesca asked.

  “I could if I wanted to.”

  “Girls.” Hell, they were worse than schoolyard boys trying to see who could piss the farthest. Had they always been so competitive or had that happened only after their mother’s death? He had little way of knowing. Before Marianne’s demise, his duties with the East India Company had ensured he spent as little time with his children as possible. It was only expected of a proper English father.

  And now that he had their attention, he needed a distraction or they’d renew their squabble. But what? Among the brandy, cheroot, and ledgers in the former Lord Epperley’s study, there was hardly anything to interest two small girls.

  No doubt about it, his daughters needed feminine occupations—drawing and embroidery and … “Dancing.”

  Both stared at him. Francesca cocked her head, while Helena’s brow wrinkled as if she thought he’d gone round the twist. Perhaps he had.

  “You girls will need dancing lessons if you’re to be presented to the king.” He hoped that didn’t sound too stupid. Or desperate.

  A giggling Francesca whirled about until her skirts stood out. Helena scowled at her. “You’re going to get dizzy and fall.”

  “Your sister is right. Here.” He stood and held out his hands to Francesca. “Now, you’re just a bit undersized, but if we pick you up like so, we might try it.” Carefully, he stepped back into a turn as if they were waltzing.

  Francesca let out a peal of laughter and clung to him. Her weight against his ribs tweaked a few bruises, but he gritted his teeth against the pain.

  “Don’t you think she’s a bit young for that?”

  At the words, he stopped where he was. Henrietta hovered on the threshold, studying the situation. While h
er tone had been falsely severe, he couldn’t remember when she’d last looked at him with such soft eyes. Before he’d left for India, certainly. Perhaps on an occasion where he’d slipped away with her to steal a kiss or two. Or three. Or perhaps she’d never looked at him so. The blue of her eyes reminded him of a midsummer sky, the clement kind with puffy white clouds where he had nothing better to do than lie back in a meadow and contemplate the sweetness of life.

  He let Francesca slip to the floor. “I won’t tell the patronesses at Almack’s that she waltzed without permission if you don’t.”

  Henrietta ducked her head, reminding him of her younger self when she was unsure, slightly awkward, and maybe a bit infatuated. He remembered that gesture, accompanied by a blush the first time he’d asked her to dance. His heart jumped as if it, too, recalled those old feelings. He held out a hand. “Perhaps if we demonstrated how it ought to look.”

  He crossed to her and slipped an arm about her waist, ready to pull her into a turn. Francesca giggled. Blast it, what had overcome him? All of a sudden, he was behaving like a smitten adolescent.

  Henrietta seemed to be thinking along much the same lines, for she remained rigid, her arms lowered. Right. Let that serve as a reminder. He’d cocked things up royally, and if they were to go back, he had to atone for his past transgressions.

  “I’ve actually come to return something to you.” She thrust an object at him, as if it singed her fingers.

  He stared at the inlay of teak, sandalwood, rosewood, all richly hued and accented with lapis and ivory. How had he missed it when she came in? She must have had it under her arm, but her mere presence was enough to distract him. Once more, his heart leapt, but for a different reason. Thank God. “Where … where did you find this? I’ve been looking for it.”

  “It washed up on the beach the other morning. Just after you arrived here.” A fetching tinge of pink rose in her cheeks. “I’ve been meaning to return it to you, only I kept forgetting.”

  “But we would have helped you remember,” Francesca chimed in.

  Henrietta smiled at her. “Yes, I know.”

  Alexander ran his finger about the perimeter, the wood rough to the touch after its dip in the ocean. The texture called forth another memory. Marianne this time, asking him to put the box away after her father’s death. At the time, he’d assumed she wished to avoid a painful reminder, but what if more lay behind her words? A warning, perhaps, from Foster himself.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad to have it back. It’s … it’s the girls’.”

  He would say no more in front of his daughters, he saw no need to alarm Henrietta any more than he had earlier.

  “They told me where it came from,” she murmured.

  “It belongs to them now.” So much for avoiding the subject of his wife. Christ, what had he been thinking? Henrietta hardly needed another reminder of his betrayal when he ought to be courting her.

  “That’s quite a treasure when they’re so young. The girls saw it up in my room, and they opened it. I allowed them to try a few pieces on—just for a moment. I hope I haven’t overstepped.”

  “No. No, not at all, but I’m glad you’ve returned this to me.” If someone else was looking for the coffer, might they trace it as far as the manor? How would anyone know it had found its way here? Even so, the jewels would remain secure in Lord Epperley’s safe. He strode to the wall behind the desk, and nudged a portrait of the first earl aside. Thank goodness the door to the safe itself lay ajar. He didn’t know the combination, and he wouldn’t want to wager his aunt did, either. But no one else would know it was unlocked, and Henrietta certainly wouldn’t tell.

  Once he’d returned the painting to its original position, he faced the others, wondering if he ought to warn his daughters to keep the safe a secret. But that might only lead to difficult questions.

  At any rate, Henrietta tipped her head toward the girls. “I wonder if we might discuss something.”

  Her expression betrayed nothing, not the earlier softness and not the chill she’d displayed at the unvoiced reminder of his wife. Yet his pulse accelerated like a schoolboy faced with asking a girl to dance for the first time. As though the past eight years had never existed. Then, he might well have imagined her scheming to get him alone so she could steal a kiss and more.

  As if that would happen. Christ, but he was a bigger idiot at thirty-two than he had been at sixteen, and that was saying quite a lot.

  “Girls.” Damn, he had to clear his throat. And how long had it been since his voice had gone husky at the mere thought of a woman, especially one simply dressed? “Can you wait for Papa in the corridor?”

  They nodded, and Henrietta smiled at them. “Why don’t I notify a footman and have him show you to the kitchen? I’m sure Mrs. Brown can find you something good to eat. Would you like that?”

  In a trice, she’d sent them on their way. Oh, yes, she was getting along with the girls just fine.

  “What is it you’d like to speak with me about?”

  She looked up and down the corridor before pulling the door to—not shut and latched, but more privacy than his aunt would deem proper, should she happen along.

  “Might you tell me how you came to meet Satya and brought him back to England with you?”

  “Oh.” He suddenly felt like a balloon with a slow leak. And what had he expected? An invitation of a more intimate nature? “Of course, but why do you ask?”

  “I wanted to see if his story matched yours. He was acting rather strangely earlier.”

  Something in her tone, the slight emphasis on strangely caused the hairs at his nape to stand on end. “I’ve no reason to mistrust the man. He’s been with me for over five years.”

  “He said you acquired him, which I found odd—as if he thinks you own him.”

  “I suppose I do, in a sense.” Alexander cupped his palm about the back of his neck and squeezed at tight muscles, but that didn’t ease the tension that was creeping up his spine. “At least in his mind, so he wouldn’t leave me if I wanted him to.”

  “He said something about the Raja granting him to you.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I saved the man’s only son and heir. The boy had the symptoms of malaria; I had quinine. It was a simple enough matter, but Nilmani insisted on showing his gratitude.”

  “But such a way to show gratitude. Slavery shouldn’t be allowed to exist in England anymore.”

  “At least they’ve abolished the trade. We can only hope they enact a law to banish the practice entirely. Even so, they do things rather differently in India. Satya was the child’s tutor. Had the boy died, Satya would have taken the blame and been killed for his troubles. In a sense, the man owes me his life.”

  She twisted a handful of skirt in her fist. “So you’ve no reason to believe he’d betray you.”

  He wanted to pluck her fingers from the fabric and entwine them with his own. For once, let her hold on to him. “He’d never dishonor his family in such a way. What makes you say something like that?”

  Shite, the irony of what he’d just uttered. Alexander had always prided himself on his impeccable honor. He held himself to a higher standard than anybody he knew. And yet he’d gone and betrayed Henrietta, hadn’t he, and at a time when he would have sworn such a thing could never come to pass.

  “Just that he seemed very interested in that box of jewels, and can you blame him? There must be a small fortune in there.”

  “That’s of little enough concern. He knew I was searching for this. It’s the last …” Damn it, he might as well say it. “It’s my daughters’ last connection to their mother. Whatever the value of the collection, it’s worth far more for the sentiment attached to it.”

  Her glance flitted to the strip of cloth around his arm before she looked away. But not before he noticed the fine layer of frost that overcame her expression.

  “Henrietta.” He longed to put a hand over hers, to touch her somehow, but she’d rightly refuse any comfort
from him. “I cannot change what has happened.”

  “I know that. I cannot change it, either, as much as I’d like to. I’d have spared myself a great deal of pain and regret.”

  “I am sorry for that.” God, let her hear the sincerity behind his words. He was sorry, damn it all, but she must know he couldn’t have arranged matters otherwise.

  “No, you don’t understand. If I could change the past, I’d arrange things so I refused you that first dance.” She turned for the door.

  Damn it, he wasn’t going to let her storm off again. Not until he’d thawed that reserve. This cold woman wasn’t the Henrietta he remembered. He grabbed her wrist. “Not so fast.”

  She whirled. “Remove your hand from my person.”

  So formal, so unlike the girl he’d proposed to. “No.”

  “I shall summon your aunt, and we’ll see what she has to say about your behavior.”

  He couldn’t help but smile. “I have the feeling she’d approve, actually.”

  The muscles tightened in her cheeks, and her eyes glittered. If he didn’t miss his guess, she was about to slap him—and he’d deserve it. He caught her hand in midair and pulled her closer. Her bosom expanded, pushing her breasts up against his chest.

  “Do not even think it.” He shot the words quick and low, and ducked his head closer. “I know a very efficient means of silencing you.”

  “Try it,” she grated, “and I’ll use my teeth and my knee.”

  He resisted the urge to pull her closer, to revel in the way her body fit snugly against his—like she was made for him alone. To use a means of persuasion he already knew to be quite effective. “I only want you to listen and listen well. I do not understand the need for your animosity. I explained all this to you in the letter I sent.”

  Her breath gusted in a warm rush across his face. “What letter? What letter?”

  He released her to turn away and run his hands through his hair. She hadn’t received his letter. Damn, damn, and damn. Now he had to explain this face-to-face, and that was infinitely worse. He couldn’t control her responses. She was free to ask questions, rather than read and accept what he wrote. But this was his fault, as well. He should never have trusted the vagaries of a sea voyage to ensure the delivery of that message.