Prudence tamped down another bout of queasiness, attributing this round to dread. She lowered the missive to her lap, then slipped her fingers under the wax. The tell-tale crack filled the quiet room. "It's not like Chloe to contact me this way."
"Via an urgent note?" Tobias wrinkled his nose and cocked his brow. "I half expect her to burst into the room at all hours."
She smiled affectionately. "Admit it. You adore her as much as I do."
"I adore you more."
Shadows of old couldn't compete with the fullness swelling in her breast. "You better," she said as she opened the note.
She expanded the foolscap and read the contents slowly, then faster and faster. She lowered her hands, nearly crumpling the vellum. "Oh no!"
"What has she done now?"
"Good God, how will we ever be able to help Chloe find a good husband now? She's run off!" She paused, shaking her head. "I cannot believe this. She can't be in her right mind."
Tobias wiped his mouth, then chuckled. "I never thought I'd hear you say that."
She tapped his hand with the note. "Oh, do try and understand. I had such high hopes that one of your friends might be the knight in shining armor she's been waiting for."
"None of my friends fit that mold, except me. And I'm taken."
"Darling, you have no idea. Our—" she hesitated to remind him "—affection for certain novels was entirely delightful when we were young, but now… well…" She put her hand to her lips. "Chloe has taken things too far."
"May I see the letter, my dove?"
"Very well. But I feel I must warn you—"
"Remember where we've been—to hell and back. This is England. We can survive anything."
She nodded, struggling to hang on to hope that somehow they could make this right—for Chloe's sake. She handed the letter to him, looking over his shoulder as he read silently:
My dearest friend,
I ask you one question: is a body unhappy about another unless she is in love? I fear we both know the answer to that now, and a gentle violence thrills my soul as I share with you that I intend to sail with the tide. I cannot face the snares and wiles of this world without love to recommend me. Therefore, I beseech you to keep my secret, for you are the only one I trust.
Markwick has disappeared. As you are no longer betrothed, I am finally at liberty to confess to you that I love him. I have always loved him, and I cannot bear for him to suffer alone. Sources close to my brother inform me that a man fitting Markwick's description has been seen in Torquay. Therefore, I've attained passage for myself and my maid on board the Valerian.
Do not be alarmed for my person or harden your heart against me. Dry your earnest tears. My virtuous intentions steer me toward a brighter destiny.
Resourcefully yours,
Chloe Walsingham
He handed the missive back to her. "Markwick? Of all my friends, she had to pick Markwick."
"There's more," she said, trying to focus on the joy swelling in her bosom rather than worry about Chloe at present. Tobias would see to her safety. She was sure of it.
"More?" He took the letter from her hand and read it again. "I see nothing more."
She forced a smile, trying to keep from looking as pale as she felt. "It is not in Chloe's note, darling. But upon reading it, I realize that time holds no relevance when love fills the heart. We're starting anew, you and I. Let there be no more secrets between us."
"I've kept nothing from you these many months, Prudence. My love for you has fueled every thought."
"But that isn't necessarily true. That is to say, you haven't expressed your feelings."
He laughed and grabbed her hand, rubbing his thumb across her wrist. "Haven't I? Has it not been obvious how much I care as every night I hold you in my arms and make love to you? I love you, Prudence. I vow with every bone in my body to love you for the rest of your days."
Her heart clenched. Her other hand slid to her belly. She splayed her fingers there and grinned slyly. "On one condition, my lord."
He glanced down at her strangely. "I will do anything for you."
"Anything?" she asked, rising from her chair to stand beside him. With the ease of a man used to getting his way, he pulled her down to his lap.
"Have I not proven how far I would go to protect you, my dove? Must I promise to enlist a certain pirate to help your friend?"
"Yes." She placed his hand over hers, glorying in the life growing inside her womb. Against all odds, love had steered their souls toward each other and now that love bore fruit. "But I require much more."
"More?"
She smiled slyly, loving the way his blue eyes softened when he looked at her. "I want my children to know I was a pirate's duchess."
He glanced down at their intertwined fingers as she played with the hair at his nape.
"Children?" His eyes grew round, and when he raised them to her, the glow of his smile melted her heart.
She nodded. "Yours and mine."
"Ours," he said, drawing her close.
He kissed her softly, a kiss so true, so potent that she didn't care who looked upon them.
When he allowed her a stabilizing breath, his sensual mouth split into a wide grin before he spoke again. "All hail the Black Regent!"
HER SCANDALOUS WISH
by Collette Cameron
Her Scandalous Wish: Chapter One
Wimpleton's Ball, London, England
Late May 1818
One, two, three, four… No, I think there are actually five.
Yawning behind her partially open brisé fan, Philomena peeked through the leaves of the enormous cage-shaped potted ficus and counted the wiry hairs sprouting from Lady Clutterbuck's chin. The chinwag and her cronies gossiped a short distance away, their unending litany promising a nagging headache soon. Philomena scanned what she could see of the ballroom and relaxed a fraction. No sign of Mr. Wrightly, a would-be suiter, and the reason she'd dove behind the plant when she spied him earlier.
Pressing two fingertips between her eyes, Philomena located the mantle clock and breathed out a soft sigh. Not yet ten o'clock. Giles wouldn't hear of leaving before the supper dance.
A droll smile bent her mouth.
No indeed. Your brother is determined to find you a husband before Season's end, Philomena Martha Elizabeth Pomfrett. Whether you like it or not.
And she most emphatically did not.
Despite her lack of interest, or the cost to his already fragile health, dear Giles dutifully escorted her to event after event, evening after evening. And she obediently—well, more aptly, reluctantly—husband-hunted.
Content to become a spinster, the mercenary process conflicted with her principles and put her out of sorts, but Giles's time ran short so, for his sake, she pressed onward. Fear of a prospective husband's reaction to her scars created a permanent knot in her belly, and she swallowed against the dryness in her mouth.
Enough.
She shoved the worry aside. She'd deal with that obstacle when the time came. First she had to acquire a spouse, and her prospects weren't altogether promising.
"Oh, would you look at that delicious specimen of manhood. Scrumptious. Do you know who he is?" one of Lady Clutterbuck's cohorts asked, her lascivious tone entirely inappropriate for an aged, married peeress.
The dame actually licked her lips, and thrust her bosoms skyward. Considering her breasts' monstrous size, they barely lifted above her ample waist, and a mere moment later, breathing heavily, she sagged into her former sack-shaped posture.
What unfortunate gentleman had found himself the target of the peeress's lewd attention this evening?
"Bradford, Viscount Kingsley. He's just come into his title. One hopes he proves himself worthy of the honor and avoids associating with inferiors and underlings. That's become so common of late with all the mushrooms and nabobs thinking to force their way into Polite Society. Deep pockets are no substitute for good breeding, I say." Lady Clutterbuck's strident voic
e plowed into Philomena with the force of a winter gale.
Bradford? Here?
She craned her neck to see around the blasted plant.
Where?
Breath held, she deftly parted the foliage and bent forward. There, at the ballroom's entrance in his formal evening attire, looking every bit the gentleman of refinement with his lovely auburn-headed sister, Olivia, on one arm and the distinguished Duchess of Daventry on the other. Unable to deny the giddiness seeing him again brought her, fleeting excitement filled Philomena.
He swept the room with his brilliant, blue-eyed—slightly bored—gaze, and she jerked backward, kicking the container as she tumbled into the wall.
He can't see you.
The gossips snapped curious, somewhat distracted glances in her direction.
Drat it all.
Philomena dropped into crouch with only her forehead visible above the blue and white porcelain, and in a moment, the matrons put their graying heads together and launched into another round of on dit. For the first time, Philomena was grateful rumors dominated their narrow attention.
Peering between the ficus's woven branches, she bit her lip as her stomach toppled over itself. She wasn't ready to see Bradford. Face tanned, his raven hair glistening in the candlelight, he threw back his head and laughed at something the duchess said. How could he have grown even more beautiful? Deucedly unfair.
Still squatting, she pivoted right, then shuffled left. Where was Giles? He'd promised her a beverage several minutes ago. He was nowhere to be seen, at least not from this awkward position.
Most likely, he'd gotten snared in a conversation with another hard-of-hearing matron. That's what came of exploiting their distant connection to the Dowager Marchioness Middleton in order to introduce Philomena to Polite Society. Not one of the ladies in the dame's favored circle boasted a birthday less than five and seventy years ago, and inevitably, a matron or two or three, imposed upon him to fetch a ratafia, escort her to the card room, retrieve a wrap, or some other trivial matter. Kindhearted, he'd never been able to politely make his excuses, so he amiably did as they bid.
The old birds just enjoyed a handsome young man's attention.
Philomena braved another glance to the ballroom's entrance. Bradford had disappeared into the crowd as well. Good. She could make her escape. A cramp seized her calf as she moved to rise. Curses. Closing her eyes, she gripped the pot's edge, waiting for the spasm to pass. Pray God no one came upon her hugging the pottery. Rather hard to explain her sudden rapt interest in dirt and greeneries.
Easing upright, she surreptitiously examined those nearest her. No one had noticed her, pretty much a testament to her entire Season. An incomparable, she was not.
Ah, here came Giles now, bearing a glass of ratafia in one hand and punch in the other. His limp had become more pronounced, and his countenance more wan, than it had been scarcely twenty minutes ago. Nonetheless, despite the ravages of ill-health, his striking visage turned many a fair maid's head as he ambled toward her hiding place.
Why did he insist on putting them through this every night?
He wants to make certain you are provided for when…
She blinked away the familiar prickle of tears and the accompanying rush of anger. His delicate heart could fail at any moment. The injustice galled. He should be strong and healthy, seeking a spouse himself, not gravely weakened by a prolonged fever and resigned to an early death.
How she wished there'd been no need for him to enlist, wished he hadn't been stationed in the West Indies, hadn't been wounded, had received proper treatment, hadn't contracted Scarlet Fever…
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
Forcing composure, Philomena schooled her features into pleasant lines. He didn't need the added burden of her grief. Eager to intercept him—now peering about in search of her, his forehead furrowed—and grateful she would be spared overhearing more of Lady Clutterbuck's malicious claptrap, Philomena skirted the pot and, after edging along the wall a few feet, stepped out into the open.
Perhaps Giles would consider joining her in a game of loo or whist. His resting a spell at the card tables would also spare her another partnerless dance set or two. Blasted hard to acquire a husband when she spent most dances tapping her toes or pretending absorption in cornices and portraits.
"There you are." Passing her the ratafia, Giles grinned and winked, his gray-green eyes, so like hers, glinting with mirth. He dipped his honey-blond head and whispered, "Hiding again, little sister?"
He knew her too well.
She shook her head before taking a sip of the overly-sweet beverage. "No, I'm just avoiding—"
"Is that Kingsley?" Gaze as steely and cold as his tone, Giles canted his head to a cluster not more than thirty feet away.
Philomena had thought Bradford attractive across the wide room, but this devilish, rake was garnering moon-eyed sighs and giggles from the younger misses and calculating, seductive glances from the faster, mature set. He hadn't seen her yet, and she wheeled around, presenting her back. The air clamped in her lungs so fiercely, her head spun dizzily, and her glass slipped from her hand. "Oh, dear God."
Her ragged gasp alerted Giles, and he seized her drink, preventing an embarrassing mishap.
Scorn sharpened the planes of his thin face as he scowled at Bradford. Quaffing his remaining punch, Giles then tossed back her ratafia before taking both cups in one hand and maneuvering her into the crowd. His gaze, simmering with sympathy, plucked at her self-control.
"Why don't we take a turn about the terrace, Phil? A bit of fresh air might help steady your nerves and allow you a few moments to compose yourself."
So that you don't make an utter cake of yourself.
Had the women fluttering their eyelashes and sending coquettish smiles Bradford's way any notion how ridiculous they looked? Scant difference lay between their brazen invitations and those of seasoned, dockside harlots. Not that Philomena blamed them. He'd matured into an arresting figure of a man, while she concealed hideous scars, necessitating a gown far from the first peak of fashion.
Jealousy dowsed with pain nipped her heart. Once upon a time, he'd reserved that charming, sensual smile for her alone. Well, she'd convinced her naïve, younger self he had.
"It's just there, through those French windows. You go along, and I'll be right out after I find Lady Middleton's misplaced shawl and put these down or find a servant to take them." Giles nodded in the doors' direction and half-lifted the glasses. "Earlier, I noticed a charming path we might stroll through the gardens."
And exhaust himself further? No, a secluded bench was a far better option.
Dragging her thoughts from Bradford, flashing his enigmatic smile at the tittering females, Philomena gave a short jerk of her head. "Yes, yes, fresh air and a stroll. An excellent notion."
Escape before the tears she thought she'd stopped shedding for him breached the damn of her resolve and surged down her cheeks. Why did seeing him hurt so awfully after all this time?
She should be over him. Wanted to be over him. Had thought she was until this miserable instant. Joy and anguish at seeing him again wrestled fiercely, each vying for supremacy.
Stupid, fickle heart.
Curling her gloved fingers into fists, and with determination in each step, she deftly navigated through the throng, her focus locked on her refuge—the lantern-lit garden. Perhaps, like a mythical tree nymph, she could disappear into the greeneries for the rest of the evening. Truth be known, no one but Giles would miss her.
Bradford hadn't sent a single letter, not one, the miserable wretch. And neither had he attempted to contact her or Giles after the fire that took Mama's and Papa's lives and nearly hers as well. A blaze that had destroyed their home, and that Bradford's fiend of an uncle had started in the sanctuary—accidentally, he claimed, the lying bugger.
Day after day during the months of her convalescence, Philomena had hoped and prayed Bradford would come to see her or sen
d word. Her love for him gave her strength, gave her the will to fight to live, helped her bear the anguish of her healing burns and the horrific loss of her parents and home.
By the time she left her sick-bed, she had relinquished any expectation of hearing from him again. Standing before her aunt's filmy dressing table mirror, Philomena cringed at the havoc the fire had wreaked on her arms and chest. Yet she possessed a measure of gratitude too, that except for a few minor burns on her shoulders and neck, the rest of her body had been spared. Taking her heart and her youthful love, scarred as viciously as her body, she'd tucked them away, determined never to endure pain that torturous again.
Bradford's shallow promises—that he'd love her until the end of time, that as soon as he was old enough, he'd ask for her hand, that he couldn't wait to marry her, that their difference in stations didn't matter—all lies. He hadn't wanted a maimed wife after the fire, and now that he held a title, he could choose a diamond of the first water for his viscountess.
Bitter knowledge to her injured pride and wounded soul.
"You knew you'd probably see him, Phil." Giles steered her further away from the salivating dames and the man who'd trampled her heart. He pressed her elbow. "It's the talk of London, his arriving in England on the cusp of his uncle's death. At least you were spared his company the better part of the Season. And you've suitors aplenty to choose from. Why, just this evening, Mr. Wrightly asked if he might court you."
"He did?"
How ghastly. Double her age, the thrice-widowed, rich nabob made no secret he sought a young wife to beget an heir on. Coarse, vulgar, and perpetually reeking of rancid lard and sweat, Mr. Wrightly had finally deduced no lady of consequence would consider his suit, so he'd lowered his standards and now directed his attention to Philomena.
Lucky her. As if she were that desperate. Yet. "Please tell me you said no."
"Of course I didn't." Giles affected an insulted mien. "That's for you to decide, but you must make a decision by this Season's end. We haven't the funds to sponsor another."
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