Holly

by Bancroft, Blair

  Dear God! What if he took one look and saw not a beautifully garbed wife but only a courtesan? A fallen courtesan?

  Holly paused, quaking, on the final step. Belle had run from Ashley. Cecy had run from Nick Black. But the latter didn’t count. Any sensible female would run from Nick Black.

  Holly Hammond would not run.

  Holly Hammond Kincade. He had married her, had he not? Which was not a bond that could be easily set aside.

  Even if she wanted to.

  Which she didn’t.

  Did he?

  That thought brought her chin up, put her feet back in motion. Captain Kincade was about to be dazzled.

  The dining room glowed in the light of twin candelabras on the dark oak table and two more at each end of the sideboard, turning the rather ordinary room into an intimate cocoon, encompassing the two wary people at its center. Royce had made no effort to stifle his rush of breath when he saw the woman descending the stairs. The total stranger who was far more than the wildest fantasy he had conjured in ten months at sea. Not Holly the wife and mother, but Holly the courtesan. Good God, Everard must been mad to give her up!

  He offered her his arm, seated her to his right, made a valiant stab at normal conversation. But his mouth was dry, his tongue a great lump that had him stammering like a school boy. The truth was, he’d never had a taste for whoring nor the money for a high-class courtesan like Holly Hammond. Not that he hadn’t had his share of women of course—but his strict Presbyterian upbringing had kept his encounters to what he thought of as an acceptable minimum.

  And she was laughing at him, he knew she was. Smiling, offering fresh conversational topics each time he failed to respond. Playing her part. Doing her job. Just as she’d done for Charles Everard and who knew how many men before that.

  Hell and the devil, where had that thought come from? He’d known all along what she was. Accepted it. But when she was a drab little nothing, worn-down and defeated, he’d seen himself as her gallant rescuer, the God-fearing man who had reached a point in his life where he wanted a wife and family and might well have accepted Holly and her burden even without Venturer as an incentive. But the stunning creature before him . . . This wasn’t the woman he’d married. Well, perhaps he’d caught a glimpse of her at the wedding, but all his visions of the future had been of a wife to warm his bed and bear his children. Well . . . some of his dreams had been more erotic than that, but never had they included this spectacular female, fit to grace the table—or the bed—of a duke.

  What . . .? What was that she was saying?

  “Really, Captain, you are much too good to be true. You forgive a household found at sixes and sevens, its mistress more disheveled than a charwoman. You change nappies, play with babies. You are not at all what I expected. It would be far easier to understand you if you weren’t so infernally good-tempered. Are not sea captains known for barking orders?”

  Royce fought his way back from a morass of misgivings, sharply tinged with jealousy. Keeping his eyes somewhere to the left of her falsely intimate courtesan’s face, he returned cooly, “I give orders. My First Mate barks.”

  “Ah.” Momentarily silenced, she signaled for the next course to be served.

  Royce was aware the food was good—superb, in fact—but what home-cooking wouldn’t taste good after so many days at sea? Yet he could not have said what he was eating. He cut his meat, forked it in, while his mind whirled in a thousand directions, casting up fantasies and nightmares which he ruthlessly set aside, concentrating on fixing a pleasant expression on his face.

  What had he done? This woman was so far above his world—yet at the same time so far beneath it—that he could see no way out of this coil. His wife was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Vibrant, intelligent, well-spoken, and well-dressed.

  His wife was a whore.

  Had been. Had been a whore. As had Nick Black’s wife.

  But Black was a criminal.

  Or had been.

  Didn’t everyone deserve a second chance?

  “Captain?” Startled, Royce looked directly into his wife’s wide brown eyes. “Do you not care for trifle? Mrs. Balfour prepared it especially for you. I believe it is well-laced with the rum you brought with you.”

  “I beg your pardon. I was just thinking how fine it is to be eating on land at a table that does not rock,” he lied with surprising ease. “And in such lovely company.”

  She acknowledged the compliment with a nod, clearly accustomed to fulsome praise.

  Of course she was. Royce had to stifle a growl that rose from the depths of an anguished soul.

  Never look a gift horse in the mouth, his inner voice chided.

  The future mother of my children! Royce countered, seeing all too clearly the chasm that yawned before him. My wife, the courtesan.

  A woman men would kill for.

  Hell and damnation, shut your mouth!

  How can you possibly care when you have that in your bed?

  Don’t be so demmed shallow!

  “I shall leave you to your port, Captain.” Holly rose, dropped what he considered a saucy curtsy and floated out of the room on a rustle of silk and trailing an enticing scent that had his nose twitching like a hound at the start of a hunt.

  Royce forced himself to sit still, downing two glasses of port while his two heads fought a fierce battle. He thought he’d put his glum Presbyterian conscience aside many years ago, and it was rather a shock to discover it still existed, rearing its ugly head between him and the most gorgeous, alluring woman he’d ever seen. Common sense, with a strong dash of lust, finally prevailed. Royce pushed back his chair and followed his wife into the parlor.

  Except . . . she wasn’t there. She had, it seemed, already gone upstairs.

  She was probably checking on the children. Yes, that was it. Feeding the little devils. That image was enough to send his lust soaring and inspire another stab of rebuke from his pesky conscience. Never in his worst imaginings had he thought to be so torn.

  Royce lowered himself into a wingchair before the fire and attempted to soothe his conflicting emotions by staring into the glowing coals. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. He jumped up, pacing the length of the parlor, back and forth like some demmed two-legged pendulum! He waited.

  No Holly.

  Well, devil take it, he wasn’t about to spend the evening in the parlor all by himself. Holly had to go to bed eventually . . . and there was that connecting door. With a speculative gleam in his eyes, Captain Kincade climbed the stairs. But by the time he reached the top, his far-seeing blue eyes had turned inward, impaled on that irrepressible Presbyterian conscience. He needed to give her time to adjust. She’d had nine months of pregnancy followed by nine months of struggling with the daily care of twins. That was a year and a half without a man (for, oddly enough, he never doubted her faithfulness while he was gone). Yes, a true gentleman would give her time . . .

  Hell and damnation! She was a woman of experience, not a seventeen-year-old virgin! And he was only home for three weeks, for it was imperative Britain’s vast merchant fleets take advantage of the next six months of good weather. Was he not to have some compensation for Nick Black’s mad scheme?

  Venturer, Venturer, Venturer.

  All good things come to those who wait.

  Ha!

  Glowering, Royce flung open the door to his bedchamber and came to an abrupt halt, one hand thrust out to steady himself against the lintel. His imagination was conjuring visions—it had to be. For while his mind was still debating whether or not to breach the door between their rooms, his wife was reclining against a pile of his bed pillows, scantily arrayed in something so transparent, and so near the color of flesh, that she appeared to be stark naked. Shining near-black hair tumbled over her shoulders; candlelight highlighted the challenging glow in her dark eyes.

  Challenging. Of course she was challenging him. She was the skilled courtesan; he, the world traveler who knew absolutely
nothing about women other than barques of frailty met in passing.

  “Do I frighten you, Captain?” his wife inquired, rather saucily. “I can leave, if you would prefer it.”

  Royce squeezed his eyes shut, stifled a groan, and took a second look. She was still there. Not a figment of his overheated imagination then. Ah . . .

  “My name is Royce,” he told her. And shoved himself away from the door.

  Chapter 11

  If her nerves weren’t jangling more discordantly than a peal by incompetent bellringers, Holly would have found the look on the captain’s face when he opened the door immensely laughable. His shock a triumph of female plotting and exactly the stunning impact Lady R wished her students to make on their employers. That she could have struck such a blow to a man who had must have known a whole string of exotic women from China and India to Brazil and parts north sent a surge of triumph through her. Short-lived, however, as he recovered swiftly, saying words that flew by her ears in a jumble of sound as he sauntered—yes, sauntered, damn him!—toward the bed.

  No, not toward the bed. He paused by a chair, deliberately shrugging out of his frock coat and hanging it with care over the back. As if he were in absolutely no hurry at all to join her. Miserable man! He applied the same deliberation to removing his cravat and then, with surprisingly little effort, his boots. His shirt came next, followed by his tight-fitting knit pantaloons, which, even after unbuttoning both sides of the front flap, required peeling down over his well-muscled thighs and well-rounded calves before being folded and laid on the seat of the chair. By the time he straightened up, wearing nothing but his drawers and socks, her mouth was dry, blood pounded in her veins, and her female parts were wet. He was . . . everything her imagination had dreamed he would be. As gloriously sculpted as those marbles Elgin brought back from Greece. A warrior whose battles were fought against the sea.

  And in the bedchamber?

  She waited, strangely breathless for a woman of her considerable experience, for the drawers to follow. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave her a long hard look. Not the look of a man eager to ravish either courtesan or wife. Merde! Somehow she’d bungled it. Or he’d simply weighed the situation and found her wanting. He didn’t want her any more than Charles did. Holly drew the covers up under her chin, hiding her barely covered breasts. Clearly, the captain was indifferent at best. Possibly wholly disinterested. His next move would be to banish her from the room before settling in for a good night’s sleep. Alone.

  Chin high, she looked him in the eye, making no effort to shutter her outrage. Damn the man. What excuse was he going to use for rejecting her? This was far worse than Charles giving her her congé. Charles had been nothing more than a charming boy. But Captain Royce Kincade? Well, devil take the Scots saint. How dare he think he was too good for her!

  The bed sagged as he sat on the edge of it, his blue eyes solemn. “Tell me, Holly,” he said, “is this gratitude? My recompense for giving you my name?”

  Holly almost quailed before the sternness of his look, but nothing in her life had been easy, and she rallied swiftly. “I am your wife. You have come home after a long voyage. I presumed this is where you wanted me to be.” She shrugged. “If not, I shall leave you in peace.” In spite of her best efforts to stifle it, a small huff punctuated her words.

  The captain smiled. “Annoyed, are we?” he taunted. “I do believe you’re beginning to wonder if I prefer boys.”

  Wide-eyed, Holly gasped. She might have given up her virginity long ago, but some subjects simply were not spoken of. “No, never!” she shot back. But perhaps she should have considered it. She was well aware that molly men often used marriage to throw a respectable curtain over their activities. And all those days at sea with none but men about . . .

  “Holly, look at me.” Slowly, she raised her eyes, which had shied away to an unseeing examination of the bedcovering, even as bile rose in her throat.

  “I’m no saint, Holly, I readily admit it. I leapt at the opportunity Nick Black offered with little regard for the problems involved.”

  “But you had ample time for regret during all those months at sea,” she stated in flat tones, cutting him off before he could utter the fatal words of rejection.

  The captain held up his hand, palm out, pausing that thought. “Yes, but I also had time to dream, to fantasize if you will. And eventually the fantasy overwhelmed the doubts, and I came rushing here this morning without so much as a thought of giving you a warning. And for that I am sincerely sorry. I realize I should have stopped, drawn breath, and asked myself if you regret this marriage? Are you here at this moment solely out of duty? Or is there hope you might want what I want—a proper home, more children, a future in which we are true to each other as we promised when we were married?”

  “Oh dear God, you are too good to be true,” Holly cried, half angry, half confused. “How can you possibly wish to acknowledge marriage to me?”

  “But I am married to you,” he returned simply. “And I am a God-fearing man who takes his vows seriously. And enough of a human being to give thanks my wife is not only a beauty but has already given me a start on the family I desire.”

  “Good God, Captain, you deserve an angel, not a fallen woman.”

  He cocked his head to one side, his overlong blond hair dangling almost to his shoulder. “I do not think I would care to be married to an angel. Very likely boring and unsatisfying.”

  “My parents own a tavern,” she cried, her voice rising perilously close to a wail. “In Kent. You are likely descended from Scottish lairds.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, “but a good dash of commoner’s blood never hurt anyone’s ancestral line. Invigorates it, more like. Look at the great houses of Europe, as well as England. Too much intermarriage by far.”

  “You’re mad,” she whispered. “I’ve known it from the first.”

  “Aye, that too.” He nodded. “But it’s a glorious madness. I don’t claim I’ll never have moments of doubt. As will you. But since we’ve gone to all the fuss of a wedding and setting up housekeeping . . .?” He raised his blond brows, his expression quizzical.

  Holly, determined to be as rational as her husband, fought for control of instincts that urged her to throw back the covers, hold out her arms, and . . .

  Devil a bit, but his arguments made sense by candlelight. But how would they resound in the morning? Could such calm compromises ever transform into something even remotely resembling affection, let alone the remote possibility of love? She had expected a swift and passionate tumble from a man who had done without for weeks at sea. (Though she had no doubt the West Indies had provided an exotic choice of companions.) Instead, he had countered her attempt at seduction with rational thought, cool argument, and not a drop of overt interest, let alone the instant lust she had expected to unleash.

  She was a failure. Lady R would be horrified.

  No. The Dragon Lady had always known Holly Hammond was her least likely candidate for a courtesan worthy of gentlemen of the haut ton.

  “Holly?” She looked up, mortified as she realized her well-schooled features were wide open, revealing her chaotic thoughts. “You were right. It’s high time we began our marriage. But in all my dreams, you see, I never expected you to come to me. You have tilted my world, and it’s taken me a few minutes to catch up.” He further stunned her as his rugged features transformed into an almost shame-faced boyish grin.

  Among the succeeding waves of surprise, doubt, questions, gratitude, and waves of relief surging through her, Holly failed to snag one coherent thought. Except . . . he was not rejecting her. Not slamming out the front door, never to return. Though the why of it was something to be discovered at a later time when her brain was functioning once again.

  Slowly, she pulled down the bedcovering, revealing her rosy peaked nipples pressed tight against the sheer white lawn of her nightwear. He stared, as she expected him to. One long finger reached out and gently tweaked a nippl
e. Lightning shot through her. Impossible! She was reacting like a seventeen-year-old virgin. But it wasn’t fear or ignorance that had her head in a muddle.

  He slid closer, a tiny smile playing about his lips as his index finger touched her mouth, trailed down her chin, her neck, and kept on going, until a very large hand closed around her left breast and squeezed. Holly felt his touch all the way to her womb, but even that sharp reminder of childbirth wasn’t enough to cool the sensations shooting through her.

  It was just physical, she told herself, her body’s reaction to being so long without. And the fact that he was a handsome devil, in spite of his strict Scots Presbyterian soul. If he could put aside his distaste for her past, then who was she to quibble? Except she had long ago learned to take charge of her sexual encounters, and that wasn’t what was happening here. She was sitting here like some great lump, letting him put his hands on her—both breasts now getting his undivided attention. Squeeze, tweak, glide. Once again her womb answered the rhythmic pulse of his hands. His lips bent to one nipple, seizing it in his mouth, cloth and all. The jumble in her mind fell away, as passion exploded and, quite incredibly, she hung on the precipice, coiled and ready to come.

  He pulled away, leaving her chilled. Alone. Confused. Until a warm gleam lit her dark eyes as she saw what he was doing. This time his disrobing was not leisurely. His stockings were whipped off and cast aside with alacrity. A wiggle, a twist, and his drawers followed in their wake. Were the harsh panting breaths cutting the cool night air his or hers? Probably both.

  And there he was. An imposing figure of a man when dressed—stark naked, in full erection, even Spartan warriors couldn’t compete with Captain Royce Kincade. He was magnificent. And all hers.

  Holly had known lust before, but never like this. She had to fight to breathe. Her head whirled. He—Royce, she must remember his name was Royce—stalked the few steps back to the bed, ripped off the bedcovering, skimmed her nightwear out from under her and over her head, tossed it away. Once again, the precipice yawned, threatening to engulf her before they’d scarcely begun. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. In bed she was always in control. She seduced, she gave of herself—always deliberately—giving satisfaction for money paid. But this . . .? This was raw, untamed. With no relation to what had gone before, whether the fumbling sex of her first encounter back in Kent, the swift, hole-in-the-corner couplings she’d known in London before she met Lady R, or her smoothly skilled joinings with Charles.