She’d brought a monster into his world. She’d very nearly made him a permanent resident. It was an unforgivable error.
Despite George’s complete lack of interest in her ouch and the events surrounding it, she felt an overpowering desire to coddle him. She even went so far as to have Isobel purchase a strawberry tart for him while she was in town buying shot and powder. It was a rare treat in the struggling household.
Adelaide handed it to him in the dining room as the late afternoon light filtered through the dining room drapes. And she watched, delighted beyond measure, as his eyes widened and his plump little fingers curled around the fruit-filled sweet.
“Biscuit!”
“No, it’s not a biscuit, darling. It’s a tart. Will you say that for me? Tart.”
“Biscuit!”
She didn’t have the heart to argue with him. “Yes, all right. Enjoy your . . . sweet.”
Isobel stepped up beside her. “You shouldn’t feel guilty for a mistake you might have made.”
“It’s not guilt,” she lied. “It’s a celebration. The dragon has been slain. The fair maiden emerges victorious.”
Isobel turned and grinned at George. “A party, is it?”
“Biscuit!”
“So I see,” Isobel exclaimed. She turned her head at the sound of hoofbeats thundering up the drive. “It appears we’re to have guests for our celebration.”
Adelaide groaned and took George’s free hand, leading him into the parlor. One day, she thought, why could she not have one day without a visitor? After her brother’s removal to prison, their fair-weather friends had dropped away like flies. They’d gone weeks, months without a caller. Suddenly, everyone in Scotland wanted a word with the Ward family.
Isobel brushed aside a drape. “It’s Mr. Brice. I thought you said he’d gone to Edinburgh.”
“I did. He had.”
“Well, he’s here now,” Isobel pointed out—uselessly, in Adelaide’s opinion—and strode to the door. She opened it before Connor could knock and gifted him with a wide smile. “Mr. Brice. A pleasure to see you.”
Connor strode inside, and Adelaide admitted that—her wish for a day of solitude notwithstanding—it wasn’t altogether terrible to see him.
His clothes were dusty and wrinkled from the road, his thick blond hair tousled from the wind. He looked like a man who’d ridden hell-for-leather across half of Scotland. It suited him, Adelaide thought. That edge of wildness would sit poorly on most men, but it suited Connor Brice.
He gave a short, impatient bow to Isobel. “Miss Ward. Where is your sis—?”He broke off as his gaze landed on Adelaide.
Wary of strangers, George ducked behind her skirts and threw an arm around her leg. It was the only movement in the room, one she doubted Connor noticed. His gaze was focused on her bruised cheek.
A taut silence descended and tension became a living, breathing entity in the room as she waited for his reaction. But Connor said nothing. He didn’t need to, the searing heat in his eyes spoke volumes.
Adelaide strove for a way to relieve the mounting pressure. “You’ve returned early,” she remarked and thought her voice sounded uncommonly loud. “Did you encounter trouble?”
Connor didn’t immediately answer. His gaze traveled slowly from her cheek to her eyes. “You might say that.”
“Yes, well . . .”
Adelaide felt George shift behind her for a peek of their guest. Connor’s eyes darted to her skirts, and his demeanor underwent a miraculous change. The line across his brow disappeared and his expression cleared as he entered the parlor and—to her shock—knelt down.
“Is that an infant hiding behind your skirts, Miss Ward?”
George stepped out from his hiding spot and scowled. “No! Not infant!”
“Yes, I can see that now.”
“Mr. Brice, my nephew, George Ward.”
His store of courage spent, George sidled closer to her skirt and gripped his pastry so tightly, thick globs of strawberry filling oozed between his fingers.
“Manners, Georgie,” she chided. When that failed to illicit a response, she gave him a gentle nudge forward.
To her surprise, George threw her a mutinous look before facing Connor. Round shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh before he extended his arm and held out his pastry to Connor. His fingers opened around the remains, pulling free with a loud slurp.
“Share.”
It was the single most reluctant offering Adelaide ever had occasion to witness. Her first instinct was to laugh and reassure George that sharing was not the good manners she’d been referring to, but curiosity kept her quiet. She wanted to see what Connor would do.
To his credit, Connor blinked at the mess once, but otherwise remained stoic in the face of such an appalling present.
“That is . . . very generous.” He blinked again, then dragged his gaze to George’s face. “But perhaps, in exchange for the treat, you might take your aunt Isobel outside for a time. We’ll consider it a favor between men.”
George dropped his hand, sent her a bewildered look over his shoulder, then turned back and said,
“Peas.”
Connor opened his mouth . . . closed it. “I was certain that would work.” He stood and studied the child before him. “What does he mean, ‘Peas’?”
Adelaide’s laughter blended with Isobel’s. She couldn’t say for certain why she found Connor’s bafflement so endearing. While she pondered the idea, Isobel crossed the room and swept George into her arms. “It means he likes peas. Give him a few more years, Mr. Brice, and your sort of flattery will have him eating out of your hand. Come along, poppet. Shall we go into the garden and see what creatures are about?”
“Beetles!” George wrapped one arm around Isobel’s neck and crammed a large bite of his treat into his mouth. “Eewels! Eewels! Eewels!”
Adelaide smiled at the pretty, albeit messy, picture her sister and nephew made as they headed off for adventure.
“Your experience with small children is limited, I see,” she said to Connor. And still, he’d made more of an effort in two minutes than Sir Robert had in six months. That was very promising. She leaned down to brush sticky crumbs from her skirts. “He is a little shy. Unaccustomed to seeing strangers in the house, I suppose. And he needs a proper nanny. I fear he might be—”
“Look at me.”
Compelled by the low vibration of fury in Connor’s voice, Adelaide straightened and caught her breath. There was no bafflement in his features now, none of the warmth he’d shown George. He lifted his hand and brushed his fingers along her jaw below the bruise. She wasn’t sure what affected her more, the exquisite tenderness of his touch or the roiling violence in his eyes.
“It’s true, then,” he whispered and let his hand fall.
“I . . . I’m fine. It’s over.” She looked for a way to change the subject. “You’ve not told me why you returned early.”
“Did you think I’d stay away after hearing of this?”
“You heard . . . In Edinburgh? Good heavens, the ton must be starved for good gossip indeed—”
“I didn’t make it to Edinburgh. Word reached me en route. I’ve had my men keep an eye on you.”
“Oh.” She thought it rather sweet that he’d been concerned enough to watch out for her. “Well, if you knew it was true, why did you come to check?”
“I like to make sure I’ve all the facts before I shoot a man.”
And with that, he turned about and headed for the door.
“What?” Adelaide blinked at his back, twice, before moving to intercede. “No! For pity’s sake, not this again.”
She raced forward, grabbed hold of his arm, and pulled. Connor didn’t throw her off, but he didn’t stop either, merely dragged her along.
“Connor, stop. Please. Be rational.”
“No.”
“Remember your quest for vengeance.” She tugged on his arm again. “A single shot and it’s done? What sort of revenge is tha
t?”
“Expedient.”
“But it’s not what you’ve planned.” He’d never expounded on his plans, so she had no idea if that was true, but it seemed a reasonable assumption that if a quick murder were Connor’s intention, Sir Robert would be dead by now.
“Plans change.”
Desperate, she jumped in front of him. “I will agree to marry you if you will cease this—”
He stopped at the edge of the parlor and looked down at her with a frown. “You have to marry me. You haven’t another choice.”
“I do. There are other gentleman in this world aside from yourself and Sir Robert.” Pity she didn’t happen to know any.
“I compromised you.”
Sensing an opening, she jabbed a finger into the center of his chest. “Yes. Yes, you most certainly did. And if you have a duel with Sir Robert now, and you miss and he does not, I will . . .” She trailed off, surprised by what she’d been about to say.
I will be left alone. But that didn’t make any sense. She had Isobel and George, and Wolfgang, if one was willing to stretch the definition of good company.
“You’ll what?” Connor prompted.
“I . . . will . . . be left without a wealthy husband,” she improvised.
“How touching,” he said dryly and gently moved her aside. “I don’t miss.”
She jumped in front of him again and put a restraining hand against his chest. “Then you’ll end on the gallows, or be forced to flee the country, and I will still be left without a wealthy husband. You owe me a wealthy husband.”
Connor’s lips thinned into a line. He looked to the door, to her, and back again. She could feel his body hum with frustration, like a bow drawn taught and lightly plucked. With baited breath, she waited to see if a seemingly logical, and indisputably obstinate, man could be persuaded by such a ridiculous argument. Owed a wealthy husband, indeed.
“Fine,” Connor relented at last. His eyes came back to her face and stayed. “I’ll not demand a duel. I’ll not kill him.”
“Thank heavens.” She let her hand fall.
He raised his hand and cupped her face. “I will never do this,” he said gruffly. Lifting his eyes from her cheek, he caught her gaze and held it. “I would never raise my hand to you.”
Adelaide said nothing. Words came easy to Connor; changes of mood came swiftly. But there was no doubt he meant what he said now, and she believed him . . . for now. She had no fear of him or his temper. Not once had she felt threatened in his presence. But her faith in his promises was limited. Only time would tell if she’d misjudged another aspect of his character.
She nodded, but lest he should begin to think she had reverted to blindly accepting everything to come out of his mouth, she added, “If you do, it will only be once.”
He wasn’t pleased with the response. Dropping his hand, he scowled at her. “You’ll believe me.”
He wasn’t predicting the future, she realized. He was issuing a command. She would believe him now. It was so unbelievably absurd that she broke out into laughter.
Connor didn’t appear the least amused. “This is not a laughing matter.”
“It is,” she assured him. “It most certainly is.”
How like a man to presume he could demand trust from a woman. How like one to take offense when that woman refused to cooperate.
“Adelaide—”
“Oh, stop glowering.” Her laughter faded and she was within an inch of following it up with a sound lecture. You’ll believe me . . . Honestly. But she was more than a little weary of arguing, of being angry. She had a lifetime to spend with this man. She could spend it hoarding her resentment, finding fault with everything he said and did, and plotting vengeance for what had occurred at the house party, or she could make some effort to be civil . . . and, perhaps, plot a bit when he wasn’t around.
“As it happens, I do believe you.”
I do believe you.
The tight knot between Connor’s shoulder blades loosened but failed to disappear altogether. It didn’t worry him overmuch that Adelaide wasn’t sure of him in a general sense. A little time and some careful maneuvering would remedy the problem. But the idea that she might fear him in a physical sense, that she suspected him capable of striking a woman in anger, that was intolerable.
He’d never raised a hand to a woman. Never. Oh, he’d wanted to. There had been the boardinghouse mistress in Boston who’d taken the rent he’d risked life and limb to steal and kicked him out on the street, and the urchin who’d stolen the bread he’d bought with a hard day’s honest wages. God knew, he’d had the opportunity to retaliate for both insults with his fists. He’d never laid a finger on them. He’d be damned to hell before he laid a finger on Adelaide in anger.
His eyes tracked over the angry bruise on her cheek.
He’d be damned if he didn’t lay fists on Sir Robert.
Rage was a towering flame inside him, blistering his skin and threatening to consume his control. He banked it through a well-honed force of will, and let it simmer below the surface. Later, he would let it spill over, when it was Sir Robert, and not Adelaide, who would suffer the burns.
He strove for a lighter tone. “I’d not thought Sir Robert would make it so easy for you to decide in my favor.”
Her eyes darted away. “I didn’t decide because of this. This is because I had decided.”
“Had you?” It gave him a ridiculous amount of pleasure to hear her say it. “Dare I ask why?”
She looked at him again and gifted him with an adorably cheeky smile. “The fifteen thousand pounds.”
“Naturally.”
He didn’t believe it. That she would marry for money, he never doubted, but she hadn’t chosen him because he had more money. Sir Richard’s income was sufficient to see her family comfortably settled, and she would have been content to accept sufficient, if it had been offered by the better man.
Damn if he didn’t like knowing she’d thought him the better man, even before Sir Robert had betrayed his true nature. But knowing for himself and hearing her admit it were not the same thing.
It was ridiculous that he should need the words from her. He knew, didn’t he? Clearly, she knew as well. There was no reason for the obvious to be said aloud. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from asking to hear them.
“I would like the truth, Adelaide. If you could see your way to giving it.”
Chapter 15
Adelaide considered Connor’s request and the manner in which it had been given. There was a new kind of hesitancy in his voice, something she’d not heard from him before. If she’d not known better, she might have called it uncertainty. She knew better. Men like Connor were never uncertain of themselves. They were confident to a fault.
She was tempted to repeat her insistence about the fifteen thousand pounds, but in the interest of beginning their new life on a more affirming note, she decided to try for a bit of honesty.
“I chose you because you told me . . .” She trailed off and reconsidered her words. Almost, she’d said she’d chosen him because he’d told the truth. Which was perfectly absurd. “You told more truths than Sir Robert. You said you’d taken notice of me before you knew of the baronet’s courtship.” She nodded once. “That was the truth.”
It wasn’t the only reason, or even her first reason, but it was the one that carried the most weight with her now. After her temper of yesterday had passed, she’d looked beyond the tangle of lies and latched onto that one truth.
Connor had wanted her, just for her. Only until he’d found other reasons to want her, of course, and it hardly excused him from having played merry hell with her reputation. But still . . . He’d wanted her, and that was something.
“You believed me.” Connor didn’t sound stunned, exactly, but there was an unmistakable note of surprise.
Good heavens, he had been unsure. Amusement tugged at her lips. “Yes.”
“And do you believe he stole my inheritance and sold me to
a press-gang when I was a boy?” he asked, a hint of eagerness in his tone.
She remembered the fury and violence in Sir Robert’s eyes. “It is possible.”
“And tossed me in prison and made another grasp at my fortune when I returned?”
“Yes, of course.” She’d believed that from the start.
Now he was just looking smug. “And that I have, in fact, saved you.”
Insomuch as a gentleman could save a lady from a burning building after he had set it on fire. She opened her mouth to inform him of Sir Roberts’s own plan for revenge, but thought better of it at the last moment. Connor may have noticed her first, but it didn’t follow that his first thoughts had been of marriage. Would his offer stand if he learned Sir Robert had never really cared for her? That there was no revenge to be had in marrying her? She wanted to think it would. She wanted to believe he would keep his promise. But she couldn’t be sure.
“You provided a viable alternative,” she replied.
His mouth turned down at the corners. “An equivocation, but I’ll accept it.”
“Generous of you.”
He didn’t smile as she’d hoped. His gaze was steady and intense, his voice soft and even. “You’ll be Mrs. Brice. You will not regret it.”
For the life of her, she couldn’t tell if he was making a promise or delivering an order. She nodded, thinking it was an appropriate response either way.
“You’ll not see him again,” Connor said.
She nodded with more enthusiasm, not caring if it was an order or a promise, so long as it was true.
Connor caught her chin gently, brushed a whisper-soft kiss against her lips. “Until tomorrow,” he murmured. Then he dropped his hand, spun on his heel, and strode toward the door.
“But . . .” They had more to discuss—more details and negotiations to work through. There was still that awful matter of how many times a day. “Where are you going?”
He threw a sharp smile over his shoulder. “To not kill Sir Robert.”
An Unexpected Gentleman (The Haverston Family Trilogy Book 2) Page 15
