O'Rourke's Heiress

by Bancroft, Blair

  Perhaps the veriest crack, Beth thought. An opening so infinitesimal it could scarce be seen. A taste, a mere testing of the charged atmosphere between them.

  No! Strong emotions were terrifying. They tore people apart, shattered them into a thousand irreparable pieces. Any excuse . . . any excuse at all was valid if it held emotion at bay.

  And yet . . . she couldn’t help but wonder if that innocent trusting girl was still there—perhaps forged in layers of steel like a Toledo blade and once again willing to take a chance on love.

  Just a tiny crack . . . a peek at what might have been . . .

  Love poured out, a pent-up torrent that overwhelmed her. She was drowning in the sight of him, the manly smell of him, the desire to be close, close enough to feel the texture of his skin, the touch of his lips, the strong pulse of his heart, the male hardness of him, the promise of ecstasy to come.

  Head awhirl, Beth plunged her face into her hands, body quivering with shock. It was true. She had the instincts of a whore. Lust was indeed one of the seven deadly sins. Nor was it going to go away. She would have to deal with it, as she had dealt with betrayal, beatings, scandal, and death, with the creation of a new business, a new life. She was nearly twenty years old now and quite capable of making decisions, no matter how earth-shaking, or soul-consuming, they might be.

  She clasped her hands together, resting them on the desktop. Breathing deeply, she gathered her strength. “I will never marry,” she declared softly. “The very thought makes me ill. But before I slip into being a recluse, I’d like to know what it is to be cherished, to lie with a man who truly cares for me. I would like to experience love as it should be. After that . . . after a few months together, we must each go our own way. I, to my cause, the rescue of other women like myself. You, to the family you should have, a woman who can be a true wife to you, give you children—”

  “Are you daft?” Terence burst out. “You’re the only woman I’d marry. If I spend the rest of my life alone, so be it. You’re mine, and there’s an end on it.”

  Beth kept her hands clasped tight, looked him straight in the eye. “Do you accept my terms or not?” she demanded.

  “Accept?” Anger warred with confusion and misery, then suddenly vanished behind the Irish charm which was his stock in trade. The charm he frequently used to hide his true intentions. “Of course I accept,” he murmured coolly, “if that’s the only way I can have you. Only a madman would turn down such an offer from the Merchant Princess.”

  Beth was not at all sure she liked the way the conversation was going. It was suddenly too much like a business deal.

  But that’s what she wanted, was it not? They would slake their thirst for each other, and then be able to go on with their lives without this constant . . . itch? Hunger? Craving?

  Enough!

  “I leave you to make the arrangements,” she said calmly. “I am sure you are quite experienced.” She picked up the first of a stack of mail lying neatly on her desk. “And now, I need to get to work. As I’m sure you do as well.”

  After only the smallest shake of his head as he regarded his beloved bent over her paperwork, Terence picked up his top hat from the center post of the coat rack, took his walking stick from the stand behind it, and left, quietly closing the door behind him. As he made his way back to Tobias Brockman & Company through the familiar maze of alleys, he was whistling.

  “Madame!” Beth rushed out from her behind her desk, gave Nell Archer a hug.

  “I’m still Nell,” the diva returned with a fond smile.

  “Ah, no,” Beth corrected, “it is Madame Rosamund Rolande who has returned to London. In the country you may pass as Nell, but not here.”

  The older woman shook her head, her smile fading. “You are correct, I suppose, but here, today, in this room, I assure you I am Nell Archer.” She seated herself on the sofa, untied her bonnet and laid it down beside her.

  “Did you see any of the classrooms on your way by?” Beth inquired eagerly as she joined her friend on the sofa. “Is it not wonderful? At last I feel I am doing something worthwhile.”

  “I am very proud of you,” Nell declared. “Although I have doubts after the wisdom of your exposing yourself to censure, or worse, I am amazed at what you have accomplished in so short a time.” Her eyes wandered around Beth’s admittedly utilitarian office, paused for an admiring moment at the intricate designs on the red lacquer cabinet. She raised a delicately painted brow.

  “Terence,” Beth explained. He said I simply could not have an office which did not have a single piece of decent furniture.

  “A-ah,” said Nell, “but of course. An estimable man, your Terence.”

  “He’s not—”

  “Please,” Nell said, holding up her hand, palm out, “let us not mince words. I came here today with honesty foremost in my mind. I would appreciate your doing the same.”

  Beth was a good deal wiser than the girl who had first seen Rosamund Rolande when Jack Harding took her to the opera disguised as a boy. It would appear her friend had come for a purpose other than viewing the new school and shelter.

  “May I offer you tea?” Beth inquired, falling back on basic good manners.

  “No, thank you, my dear. No distractions,” Nell murmured, strangely ill at ease as she played with her kidskin gloves. “I–I wondered . . .” She took a deep breath, plunged on. “Has Terence ever said anything about me?”

  Puzzled, Beth frowned. “I know he has seen you at the opera, that he recognized you in Devon. He was pleased you were my friend, that you were there when . . .” Beth looked down, considered a moment. “Other than that”—she shrugged—“I cannot recall anything more specific.”

  “Then he has never mentioned we are old acquaintances? That I first met him when he was somewhere around ten years old?”

  Momentarily speechless, Beth stared at her friend. “In Ireland?” she breathed.

  “In London. With Tobias. Shortly after they met.”

  In typical Brockman fashion, Beth went straight to the heart of the matter. “You knew papa?”

  “Yes.” Nell let the word lie there, gave it time to sink in.

  It was all so obvious, Beth cringed at her stupidity. Their similar looks, identical waves of blond hair. The purity and perfect blend of their voices. Nell’s faint the night they met. The famous diva deciding to live in a tiny town on the wilds of Dartmoor.

  “I believe,” Beth said carefully, “you are trying to tell me something.”

  “I was going to tell you when I went to Dunscombe,” Nell said in a sudden rush of words. “But you were so sad, had so many problems, I could not add any more emotion to the stew. So I held my peace. And afterwards . . . afterwards I stayed until I could be sure you were on the mend, then I went off to Italy, hoping to gain perspective, decide what was right. I had promised Tobias, you see, that I would never contact you, never reveal the . . . connection.”

  With an index finger Nell wiped a stray tear from under her eye. “You must know he paid me well to do just that. Your father’s money made it easy for me to become Madame Rosamund Rolande, to sprinkle my conversation with French phrases and pretend I had never been anyone’s mother. I thought . . . I was selfish,” Nell continued her inexorable confession. “I thought I wished only to sing, to be gay, to enjoy the fruits of being famous. To take lovers . . .”

  Nell held up a hand, stopping Beth’s automatic protest. “No, it is true, but it will never do for you. I saw the look on that boy’s face when Tobias placed you in his arms. He loved you on the instant and has never stopped. Listen to me, child,” she insisted, “you are destined for one great love in your life. It is a privilege, an astonishing joy. Something I myself have never had. Except the love I have for you. Do not, I beg of you, throw it away.”

  “I cannot marry again,” Beth whispered. “Never!”

  Nell wiped her eyes. “Speaking of both mother and lover, is too much for a single afternoon. Talk of Terence can wait. “Moth
er,” she added briskly, as if the word could sweep sorrow away. “There, I’ve said it! Though I was no mother at all for years and years, I tried to make up for it, truly I have.”

  Beth launched herself at Nell, enfolding her in her arms. “Truly, truly you did,” she exclaimed. “I would not have survived Dartmoor except for you.”

  “You would have,” Nell assured her daughter. “You have inner courage which glows with the fire of angels.” Clinging together, mother and daughter indulged in a bout of tears for all that had been missed and in dawning hope for better days to come.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Falcon Court, June 1818

  Beth took one last look in the tall ornately framed mirror Tobias had purchased from a villa outside Florence. In the past hour the silvered glass had reflected the same wide-eyed anxious face above four different gowns. When the virginal white she had planned to wear suddenly seemed absurd, she had tried an almost equally demure pale pink, soon discovering its charm had paled to insipidity. Annoyed now, she yanked her only red dress off the shelf, a rich burgundy with creamy lace peeking out of the decolletage and sleeves, the skirt ending in three graceful layers of matching lace just above her toes. She had once thought the dress elegant and sophisticated. Tonight it looked as if it belonged in a brothel. Disgusted, she fell back on one of her many gowns of black. But she had worn little else for the past year . . . and the association with her widowhood was singularly inappropriate for her present needs.

  In the end she’d delved into an old chest tucked in the corner of her dressing room, pulling out a set of garments with poignant memories. Would they still fit?

  After considerable struggle with the knit pantaloons and a cravat that defied her fumbling fingers, Beth stood before her pier glass, frowning in doubt. Her lips tilted into a smile, burgeoned into a giggle. These were the young gentleman’s clothes she had worn to the opera that fateful night two Seasons ago, but tonight there was no way she could pass for a boy. Not even with her hair pinned high and her cap pulled low. The shirt, pants, and jacket were made for a slim young man, not someone whose figure more closely resembled an hour glass. The shirt strained across her breasts, while the pants threatened to split their seams at the thighs.

  Would Terence remember?

  Of course he would.

  Coward!

  Beth’s smile faded. She was not a coward . . . but her argument against her inner voice was as futile as driving her pony cart with a snapped rein. Truth was, she was hiding her warring emotions behind a frivolous search for something to wear when Terence would not care if she came to him as a beggar or a queen. She had tried to tell him she would never marry again, that the very thought made her nauseous. She had even attempted to warn him she might not be able to complete their rendezvous, that for her it was likely terror had spoiled intimacy forever.

  And yet here she was, sneaking out of the house, clinging to the faint hope that a night with Terence would be some magic curative, assuaging her fears and curing her lust for her step-brother for all time. Freeing her to live the life of service and charity she had chosen for her penance. As atonement for her poor judgment, for being an ungrateful daughter, a poor wife, a worse friend to Terence—ensnaring him in her troubles. Aiding and abetting her husband’s murder . . .

  Ballocks! The sharp profanity of her inner voice came as a shock, even though she’d first heard the word at age six.

  Oh very well, it was true—some part of her still recognized herself for a victim, even as the rest of her conscience scorned her as a murderous whore; at best, a spoiled, idiot child who had not had the courage to stand up for what was right.

  Stop! Terence was waiting. She’d had more than a year for anguished maunderings. Now was not the time for an orgy of recriminations. Rodney suffered from an illness that could not be cured. She would not let him ruin her life any more than he already had. Time to go. Time to rid herself of old fancies, clear the way for the life of penance that must be hers.

  Beth drew in a deep breath, blowing out the candles one by one, before moving quietly toward her chamber door with nothing more than the light of a quarter moon to guide her. Terence. She was on her way to meet Terence. Her pulse suddenly soared so strongly she felt she could fly down the stairs, but she was a Brockman and the irony of breaking her neck on the way to this long-awaited tryst kept her feet firmly planted to each step.

  Slipping out a side door, Beth skirted the shrubbery beside the massive walls of Falcon Court and moved into the gardens that bordered the river. An arbor with a mass of small white blossoms scattered the scent of roses into the night. Surely a blessing, Beth thought. A sign meant for lovers, assuring her what she was doing was right.

  The path through the rose garden led straight down to the watergate, a wrought iron opening cut into the eight-foot fence along the riverbank. Beth paused. The few times she had walked through this gate, she had been accompanied by at least two armed men. On Terence’s orders. And now, her jailer was asking her to break free, to open the gate and walk alone into the shadows of the night.

  Foolish chit! Out there in the darkness was Terence, discreetly hidden from the very eyes he had set to watch her. No sense waving a red flag under Papa’s nose. Was he daring her to be brave? To take this final step on her own?

  Did he think she might turn and run?

  Eyes. How could she have thought herself alone? There was no way Terence would let her out of the house without her ever-present guards. Which meant—oh, dear God—which meant they knew. For a moment Beth sagged, leaning her forehead against the cold black iron. She was Elizabeth Brockman, daughter of a tradesman, who had allowed herself to be sold for a title and a place in the ton, while still lusting for another man. Not Papa’s fault. Hers. He never would have forced her.

  Which made her a very special kind of whore. So what did it matter if half the world saw her sauntering down to the dock for a rendezvous with the Managing Director of Tobias Brockman & Company, London?

  The gate, idiot. Open the gate!

  Running back to the house would be more sensible.

  She had been sensible—or supposedly so—and look what happened.

  Beth straightened her shoulders, tugged at the gate, which opened smoothly on silent well-oiled hinges. An unlocked gate at Falcon Court? Terence O’Rourke, ever the fixer. Prickles ran up Beth’s spine as she stepped out onto the stone landing and gingerly descended the steps which led to the dock. Somewhere an owl hooted. Beth stumbled, nearly fell down the last step. A dark shadow rose out of the gloom above the water, a hand clamped hard across her mouth, stifling her scream.

  “I’m sorry,” Terence whispered, holding her tight against his chest. “I thought it an easy journey for you. I should have realized . . .”

  Beth squirmed around, buried her face in his chest, shoulders shaking.

  “I’m a fool,” Terence declared. “I should have come to the house for you.” His lips brushed her ear. “I ignored the horrors you’ve suffered, the constant tension. I’m that sorry. Truly—”

  He stopped, sucked in his breath. He was holding Beth in his arms. All of her petite but perfectly proportioned body tight against him, her soft warmth burning straight through to his flesh. Beth had come to him. Terrified, she had still come to him. “It’s all right, I promise,” he murmured, drawing in the scent of her, the lingering whiff of roses. “The skiff’s at the end of the dock.”

  Beth resisted. “How many men are watching us at the moment?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Two? Four? I’d just like to know how many of my bodyguards will think me a wanton.”

  Terence swore. Colorfully. “Your bodyguards adore you, are infinitely loyal to both of us, and to the company as well.”

  “How many?”

  “Eight.”

  “There are eight men watching us standing here? Embracing?”

  “I put on extra for the occasion.”

  “Good God!” Beth breathed.
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  “The sooner you move—the sooner we get into the skiff—the sooner we will be truly alone,” Terence pointed out in what he hoped was a reasonable tone.

  “We couldn’t have sneaked out the back door at the shelter, disappeared for a few hours?”

  “And have every last woman in the place chattering about it within half an hour?”

  Beth sighed. He was right, blast him. But surely he could have managed better . . .

  No, he couldn’t. She’d been shockingly excited about sneaking out of the house, quite breathless over the romance of venturing onto the river in the dead of night to meet her one true love.

  And what had Terence gotten for his efforts? A sour mouse, searching for another excuse to not be happy. A once-proud princess caught somewhere between dreams of joy, bouts of guilt, and the sheer determination to remain single for the rest of her life.

  Somehow, as her thoughts drifted, they had moved down stone steps which disappeared into the dark tidal waters of the river. Hands reached out to swing her into the bow of a tiny boat. Oarlocks clanked, the skiff moved away from the dock, Terence only a dark shape on the stern seat. Minutes later, a larger craft rose up out of the night—a sloop, anchored in a cove a short distance upriver.

  Again, willing hands helped her on board, and then suddenly she and Terence were alone, the crewmen melted away into the night. “This way,” Terence said, and led her toward a cabin which took up the entire stern. Softly glowing lanterns, two of them, lit the spacious room, revealing . . .

  Beth gawked. The bed was so large, it filled her vision. She could clearly see them both, naked and writhing . . . passion boiling through their veins . . .

  No! They were about to conduct an adult affair. A reasoned rendezvous in a calm, sophisticated manner. An experiment in love to rid themselves of the lust that was ruining their lives. That was all.