To Love a Lord: A Victorian Romance Collection

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Sophie sat straighter, irritation crawling the length of her spine.

  Certainly not pining!

  “Not that it’s any of your concern,” Sophie corrected him, “but he is my fiancé, not my lover!” She cast him a malevolent glance.

  And if her look had been wistful at all then it surely had little to do with any desire to see Harlan Horatio Penn III. There was only one thing Sophie wanted from her fiancé, and that was satisfaction.

  Jack merely grinned at her.

  Why did that simple statement please him?

  “Why are you doing that?”

  “What?”

  “Smiling!”

  Jack lifted a brow. “Am I smiling?” He took another look at the little portrait, and concluded that the man had a weak chin to match his weak character.

  “Yes, and please stop! It makes me uncomfortable!”

  She did seem a bit fidgety so he frowned at her. “This better?” He made an exaggerated face, wanting a smile, just a tiny one out of her. Uncertain why it mattered, he nevertheless wanted to know what she looked like when she dared to crack a smile.

  She rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide the faint smile that came to her lips. Her face didn’t crack, he noticed.

  “You are absolutely despicable, Mr. MacAuley!”

  He ducked his head back out the door and said to anyone and no one at all, “I think she likes me!”

  He heard her laugh, though her expression was sober when he ducked his head back in the door.

  “If it makes you feel better to think so,” she conceded, and he watched her mood sink as she glanced at the portrait of Penn.

  Funny, it had the same effect on him ... but it was a strange reaction to have to the man you intended to marry.

  He watched her more closely, trying to decipher her mood. Was she truly missing Penn? Or was there another reason for that forlorn expression?

  He shouldn’t give a damn, but he’d found his mood soured by the sight of her brooding over her bumbling boyfriend, and quickly restored by her admission that they were not yet lovers.

  “Women are not all so base,” she reproached him, seeming to read his thoughts.

  He couldn’t keep himself from wondering if her lips were as soft as they appeared.

  “They are if their man is worth a damn,” he said, and dared to wink.

  She leapt to her feet, smashing her head against the low ceiling. “Ouch!” A rosy hue crept up her cheeks as she rubbed her head, and she clutched the sketching pad almost jealously to her breast. He noticed it for the first time. “Mr. MacAuley!” she protested. “I hardly think this conversation is appropriate!”

  “Watch the ceiling,” he warned belatedly.

  She glared at him and tried to stand defiantly, but couldn’t quite manage the effect in this miniature room. He wasn’t certain precisely why he seemed to need to bait her, but he liked that she didn’t stand down.

  He gestured at her pad. “What is that?”

  She crossed both arms over the item in question. “What is what?”

  “That, in your hand.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “I see... and what is it you were doing with that nothing?”

  He didn’t know why, but she suddenly looked guilty, and his curiosity needled him harder. “Nothing,” she answered again, her tone slightly raised.

  “I see,” he said, and refused to beg. “Speaking of what’s appropriate,” he told her, changing the topic, “I hardly think your beau is going to appreciate the fact that you are alone on this ship...” With me, he almost added. “... in the company of so many men. Have you thought of that?”

  Her chin jutted toward him, though her glance was suddenly wary. “Are you telling me your men cannot be trusted?”

  “We aren’t barbarians if that is what you’re asking, Mizz Vanderwahl... though your kind often likes to think so.”

  “My kind?” She drew back at that, taking offense, and probably rightly so. Jack knew he was being unfair, but years of fighting the system had left him slightly rankled and ill-tempered—something he usually managed to overcome, but not when faced with Sophia Vanderwahl, the fiancé of his nemesis.

  “About that favor?” he prompted, changing the subject.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You have a lot of nerve, insulting me and then asking for favors. The answer is no, whatever it is! Now if you don’t mind leaving me to the comforts of my state room,” she said haughtily, and turned, dismissing him to rummage through an open bag.

  Jack allowed himself a moment’s appreciation of her pert little backside, then, knowing they had reached a standoff, he conceded. “Suit yourself, princess.”

  She whirled to face him, standing abruptly once again, smashing her head. “Don’t call me that!” This time she didn’t yelp, only rubbed her head, but her eyes flared with anger.

  The devil on his shoulder jabbed him. “If the shoe fits…

  She rubbed her head harder, looking beautifully indignant. “You know, I really don’t think I like you, Mr. MacAuley! Not at all!”

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her, “It’s mutual.”

  But he wanted her.

  He didn’t have to like the woman to feel desire for her. The proof was in his trousers, firmer now after their encounter.

  He left her, closing her door behind him, and couldn’t help but smile at her fit of temper that followed. He heard her through the door though she tried to muffle her scream. More than he should, he enjoyed pricking her anger. She was far too easy a target, and he concluded that there was more to Mizz Vanderwahl’s trip to the Yucatan than she was willing to let on.

  The question was what.

  Whatever it was, Jack was certain of one thing... Penn was at the heart of it, and it wasn’t that Sophia Vanderwahl missed him. He didn’t take her for the type to chase a man about even with a ring on her finger, and she’d already admitted they were not lovers.

  No, there was more to the story, and Jack intended to find out exactly what it was.

  He determined to keep a close eye on Miss Sophia Vanderwahl, and if Penn had put her up to spying for his own gain, Jack was going to make him regret ever having tangled with him.

  As would his golden-eyed fiancée as well.

  In the meantime, since Sophia had refused his favor even before hearing it, he was going to have to find someone else to cook for them since they seemed to have accidentally left Shorty behind.

  How long did it take a man to say goodbye to his gal, anyway?

  It was just as well that she hadn’t heard him out... He tried to, but couldn’t quite picture Sophia Vanderwahl with an apron on and standing behind a lit stove. He could see her better sitting on a throne with a yapping mutt in her lap.

  Damnable woman! She was too distracting by far.

  Chapter 6

  You have the most delightful hands, dear girl!”

  Harlan Horatio Penn III writhed under gently caressing fingers. He had taught her well, he thought with some pride, and felt only remotely guilty for not remembering her name.

  He couldn’t be expected to remember anyway; their names weren’t made for the American tongue.

  He turned to admire her dark skin and features, and she caught his expression and smiled. How wonderfully intuitive she was! He smiled in return, and she renewed her efforts. How eager to please she was!

  How spoiled he was becoming.

  The thought of going back to Sophie, with her little-girl expressions and her unpracticed kisses, appealed not at all. He grimaced as he thought of the letter he had received from her father. It seemed Maxwell Vanderwahl was eager for grandchildren. He had decided out of the blue that Harlan was wasting his time in the wilderness, and had summoned him back to Boston posthaste. Harlan had little doubt he would exercise his considerable power to achieve that end, if Harlan did not comply soon. He needed Jonathon to help him persuade Maxwell to give him more time.

  He sighed wistfull
y and turned around to let the girl labor over his back, settling into a comfortable languor and thinking he would like to spend his entire life here and nowhere else.

  ‘It’s not that she’s unattractive,” he told the smiling native girl, knowing she didn’t understand a word he was saying. “She just... has no passion,” he explained, and turned to glance over his shoulder. “Understand?”

  The girl’s smile widened, and she nodded enthusiastically.

  “Of course you do,” he said anyway. “Smart girl!” He didn’t need a woman who talked incessantly, asked questions interminably. He wanted someone who would shut up and tend loyally to his needs.

  She rattled off something in her native tongue, and giggled, making him smile. The simple fact that he could not understand her Spanish made her every utterance seem like music to his ears.

  “I wonder if Jon booked passage with that rabble-rousing pretender,” he said thoughtfully. “I think he’ll like you very much!” He turned to her. “You’ll take good care of him, now, won’t you?”

  She giggled and nodded, seeming to understand that he wished her to.

  “Good girl. Good girl.”

  He lapsed into a thoughtful silence, then turned, raising a brow and grinning a bit lasciviously. “You’ll have a bit of making up to do, I think.” He wiggled his brow at her. “I promised Jon you would be exquisite, and the poor chap will likely have had a rough journey.”

  He’d also promised the girl would be unused ... but that particular promise was one he couldn’t seem to keep.

  She mistook his expression.

  Again she smiled, only this time much more seductively, and began to move her hands down his back to his buttocks, eager to please him.

  He sighed in pleasure, deciding that Jon would simply have to make do with leftovers.

  Anyway, it would be far better fare than he would be getting aboard MacAuley’s wreck. Harlan had finagled a little gift for the entire crew. They’d all be lucky if they didn’t die of food poisoning before the journey was over... thanks to one sordid character who went by the name of Shorty.

  Too bad for Jon, but Harlan hadn’t dared risk telling even his good friend. It just couldn’t be helped. The girl would just have to soothe his wounds when he arrived.

  The last thing he wanted to see was Jack MacAuley on the same site he was working.

  She suddenly lowered her lips to the small of his back, startling him as she lapped gently at his back.

  “Oh my!” he exclaimed, and chuckled softly.

  Fast learner, she was!

  He only wished his linguistic skills were as fine as hers... so he could understand what the hell she was whispering to him in that sweet musical tone.

  With another sigh he relaxed completely, giving himself over to her ministrations.

  “Professor Penn!” a voice intruded.

  Startled, the girl stopped her tongue exercises abruptly, and Penn’s mood soured instantly.

  Didn’t anybody ever knock? Christ!

  Rolling his eyes, he sighed again but didn’t bother to move. His voice was muffled by the towel he was using for a pillow. “Go away, Borland, can’t you see I’m busy!” he reproached the boy.

  “Yes sir,” he answered, and stammered like an idiot, “but... well... you see ..

  “Later,” he told the young man firmly, and laid his head down again.

  Eager beavers these young apprentices were—annoyingly eager, at that!

  “But sir ... it’s just that... you’ve a telegram!”

  Harlan lifted his head once more. “A telegram?”

  The boy nodded and came forth, offering it.

  “Well, don’t just stand there! Give it to me!” Harlan demanded.

  The youth handed it to him and scurried out before Harlan could dismiss him. That simple disrespect irked him.

  He opened it.

  It said simply: missed the boat. your telegrams are on board. they’ll be burned first time they use the stove. don’t want your blood money.

  It was from Shorty.

  Letting out a string of oaths, Harlan bounded up from where he lay, fury engulfing him. “Suffering idiot!” he shouted, and ripped the telegram in half.

  Sophie knew they were working hard on deck: She could hear them laboring without rest and without complaint as she sat on her bed and sketched diligently.

  The camaraderie between the men was easy and full of banter, and she found herself feeling quite the outsider among them ... and not a little bit envious.

  She couldn’t help it.

  She couldn’t remember ever having such an easy fellowship with anyone at all, not her parents, not her friends, not even Harlan. Always she had been on her best behavior, afraid to show anyone anything other than what was proper, or what was expected.

  And in truth, she’d had reason to be afraid. She was an anomaly, wanting things that were hardly conventional for a woman of her position.

  Though she wanted desperately to make her parents proud, some little part of her had admired Harlan’s rebellion against his father. His parents had wanted him to become a lawyer, to replenish their coffers, since his own father’s career had nearly broken them. Harlan had defied him, following in his father’s shoes, despite the protests, and some little part of Sophia had wanted to follow his example.

  Some little part of her still did.

  While Sophie had snuck out to search for ferocious shark’s teeth with the little boys of her age, her friends had all been busy learning their manners and reciting the beatitudes. As adults they had become so very somber—no giggling with their heads together over anything at all, while Sophie still dreamed of attending the university and studying Plato’s Ethics or the origins of nature and the limits of human knowledge.

  But it was an impossible dream.

  Her father would never permit it. Their world was an unforgiving one, and a woman’s duty was to be a proper showpiece at all times.

  How dare Harlan belittle the interest she had shown in his work!

  How dare he make light of her intellect!

  It was as though he didn’t believe her capable of meaningful thought.

  It was as though he had entirely dismissed her because of her gender.

  She had thought he respected her more, but she was a fool for believing it, because all the signs had been there. She had only refused to see them.

  She didn’t want to be a wretched showpiece; she would die inside. But she would certainly become one if she married Harlan.

  All her friends—every one—as mistresses of their own homes seemed to have metamorphosed into their mothers, ready to raise their daughters in the same manner in which they had been brought up. She looked into their eyes and saw but a remaining flicker of that curious fire every child is born with—boy and girl alike. For a time, it had nearly smothered within herself. She could see that now.

  Only now, when she should be weeping with grief over Harlan’s betrayal, did she feel truly alive for the first time in so long.

  She could feel.

  And smell.

  And see.

  And it was quite likely melodramatic to think so, but she could do these things with far more clarity and intensity than she had experienced ever in her life.

  She sighed wistfully, feeling restless.

  She had completed the first sketch of Jack and set it aside, determined to capture his essence on paper. Somehow, every time she finished one, she was compelled to begin another. Jack might be a demon, but his was no simple facade. No matter how many times she drew him, she seemed somehow to be missing something essential to his persona. And so she kept trying. And kept trying... and kept trying... until she was wading in a veritable sea of Jack’s face.

  She wondered what they were doing above deck, wondered what it would feel like to be one of them—to be allowed one’s own opinion, to tell bawdy jokes ... to wear pants ... and even more scandalous yet... to wear no shirt.

  Unbidden, a vision of Jack MacA
uley’s broad, bare chest materialized before her, and her heart began to beat a little faster. She started to draw shoulders below the neck, and stopped herself, forcing the pencil once more to the exaggerated arched brow.

  She blinked the other image away and tried to visualize Harlan, but his face remained a blur. Certainly his body was no more than a shadowy blob.

  Odd that she suddenly couldn’t even recall him clearly. Reaching out, she lifted up the portrait and studied it, trying to recall what it was about him that had attracted her to begin with.

  She had known him forever, it seemed, but she supposed she had first admired Harlan’s intelligence. He had been her first real friend and confidant.

  But somehow, her heart was not broken at the thought of losing him. Anger she felt in spades over his betrayal, but heartbreak, no.

  He had been everything her parents had wished for in a son, and everything Sophia had wished she could be—intelligent, witty, adventurous ... unafraid to stand up to his own father.

  Secretly, Sophie had yearned to live Harlan’s life, visit the places he visited, talk to the people he talked to, learn and learn and learn, and experience life to its absolute fullest!

  It was her true dream, though she was a practical woman, and if she couldn’t live the life she wished, she had determined to do the next best thing—to be the best mother and wife she possibly could be, and live vicariously through her husband. Even if he would have been mostly absent, she was certain absence was bound to make their hearts grow fonder.

  Bah humbug!

  He had apparently dismissed her the instant he had departed Boston!

  She set the picture down and began to gather her drawings, afraid someone might see them.

  The voices above deck had quieted with the sun’s descent. Faint murmurs reached her ears, but otherwise only the sound of the wind through the sails was discernible.

  The air was stuffy and stale in the tiny cabin. For propriety’s sake, she was forced to keep the door closed, and not a whisper of air penetrated the small room. It was rather like being in a coffin. In fact, the longer she remained, the more morbid became her thoughts—she glanced at the portrait of Harlan—the more delicious was the thought of her revenge.