by Cheryl Bolen
Miss Rossington’s acrimonious words echoed in Ivonne’s mind.
“Do you have ... other wounds?” She practically ground her teeth in vexation.
Curse her wagging tongue. Of course he does, dimwit. Do you expect him to blurt the God-awful truth about his ... his ... maleness?
He turned his arm over so she could see the other side. The wound wrapped around his forearm, a reddish-purple serpent of mutilated flesh. “I’ve a few others, mostly on my ribs and back.”
“What happened?” Ivonne didn’t want him to tell her what trauma he’d undergone. Her heart could barely tolerate seeing these scars. Somehow, she sensed he needed to talk of the experience in order to put the ordeal behind him. To begin the healing in his soul as well as his body.
“My commander ordered us to surround and invade the Pindaris.” Falcon sighed and gave her a sideways look. His handsome mouth twisted into a wry grimace. “I tried to save a woman and her four children trapped inside their burning home. Two Pindari attacked me before I could get the last boy out.”
His eyes darkened to midnight, and grief hardened his features. “The Pindaris’ homes were destroyed. Burned to the ground, every one.”
The muscles in his jaw taut, he closed his eyes for a lengthy moment.
“Not a day passes that I don’t regret requesting a transfer to India. The devastation some British have inflicted on those people, caused by insatiable greed for land and resources ...”
“It sounds absolutely horrid.” Ivonne laid her hand on his arm, the flesh warm and rough beneath her palm. “You couldn’t have known what to expect.”
Why had he asked to go to India in the first place? He’d never told her. Never said how long he’d be gone. Or if he planned on returning. Ever. Every day, she’d prayed for his safety, forcing away her feelings of betrayal and despondency.
A thought struck Ivonne, the absolute certainty of the epiphany penetrating to her soul. The knowledge left her flabbergasted, and the air hitched in her lungs, all the more proof she had hit upon the truth. She caressed his beautiful face with her gaze.
She’d waited for him, secretly hopeful he’d return someday. And that maybe, by some miracle of providence or God’s grace, he’d missed her as much as she’d missed him. That was why she hadn’t entertained the attentions of other beaus.
She’d been waiting for Falcon’s homecoming.
His eyes hooded, a slow, sensual smile curved his mouth.
Did he know? Had he guessed? How could he have?
She dropped her attention to the piano, afraid he’d read the truth in her eyes.
Men as handsome as he didn’t settle for spinsterish misses like her. No, they drew diamonds of the first water to them as naturally and uncontrollably as the moon’s irresistible draw upon the tide. Beauty sought beauty. Each to their own kind.
The injustice of that reality didn’t escape her.
“May I ask you something?” Falcon brushed a lock of hair off her cheek.
Oh, to have the right to turn her face into his hand and press her lips to his palm.
“Of course.” In the faint candlelight, he was even more striking than she’d remembered. “What is it you wish to know?
“In the arbor, Kirkpatrick spoke of your limp. What happened?”
Ivonne gathered her hair and twisted the mass into a thick rope before draping it across her shoulder.
“I broke my leg in two places, the result of a riding accident.” She toyed with the ends of her hair. “One break didn’t heal properly.”
Falcon inclined his head in the direction she’d come from moments before. “I didn’t notice a limp just now.”
“It’s less noticeable on soft surfaces and if my leg is rested.”
Enough talk about her. She wanted to learn what his plans were. More specifically, where would he make his home? Would he take a wife?
The notion, as unsavory as tainted fish, coiled in her stomach.
She absently played a couple of chords with her left hand and then began fingering the bass line of a favorite sonata. “What will you do now?”
CHAPTER NINE
“Do you have any plans?”
Ivonne asked the question burning on her lips since she’d bumped into Falcon in the garden. Why hadn’t he traveled straight to his family estate, Suttoncliffe Hall, instead of choosing to stay in London? After all, he hadn’t seen his family in over half a decade.
He tapped out the right hand accompaniment to her chord progression.
A nascent smile bent her mouth. They played rather well together.
His playing became stronger as he slid her a sideways glance. “I’m not altogether certain what I’ll do. It depends on several things.”
Falcon stopped playing. His stare intense, he stroked her cheek with the back of his good hand, and his attention sank to her mouth.
She sighed and closed her eyes, angling her face into his palm. His touch never failed to send her senses reeling.
“Such as?” My, she was brazen tonight.
“You.”
Ivonne’s eyes fluttered open. She played a part in what he intended to do?
Dear God, please let him feel something more than friendship toward me.
“Me?” Was that husky voice hers? She couldn’t tear her gaze from his parted mouth.
He traced her lips with his rough thumb.
“Why me?” she managed to whisper, fighting the urge to touch his thumb with her tongue.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he lowered his head, bit by bit, as she angled her chin upward. Cupping her nape with one hand, he wrapped the other in her long tresses, trapping her.
He was so close. She smelled brandy on his breath and the faint remains of his woodsy cologne. Every nerve tingled in anticipation.
“Ivy?”
She trembled at the husky timbre of Falcon’s voice. Heat suffused her, delicious, heady warmth spreading from her middle outward, hardening her nipples and causing a curious ache between her legs.
“Yes?” She clutched his solid biceps to keep from melting onto the floor. Did the man have a soft spot anywhere?
“I want to kiss you.”
Not more than an inch separated their lips.
“Yes.” She dared not breathe, having waited for this moment for so long. Nothing must disturb the magic.
“You’re sure?” His nostrils flared, and his hot gaze fastened on her lips. Ever the gentleman, Falcon paused and lifted heavy-lidded eyes to hers. He brushed her lower lip with his thumb again. “You want me to continue?”
Woman’s intuition told her he asked for much more than a kiss or two. Ivonne smiled, past caring if he discovered the secret she’d long nurtured in her soul. “I’ve waited a lifetime to kiss you.”
The smile he gave her set her pulse careening. His lips met hers, firm yet gentle at the same time. He shifted his arms, encircling her and lifting her closer.
She entwined her arms around his neck, snuggling against his chest, her aching breasts mashed flat.
He kissed each corner of her mouth then nudged her lips apart with his tongue.
A contented sigh escaped her.
No other suitors’ fumbling attempts to kiss her had prepared her for Falcon’s seductive assault on her untried senses. Light-headed, swept away on unfamiliar sensation, she parted her lips, granting him access. She was his to do with as he pleased.
He cupped one breast, gently twisting the nipple between his thumb and forefinger as he swept her mouth with his tongue.
She groaned, arching into his hand and meeting his thrusting tongue with her own. Coherent thought flew in the face of her passion. This was all that mattered. Being here with Falcon, finally experiencing what she’d dreamed of for years.
He bent his neck, feathering her throat with scorching kisses before nudging aside the satin of her gown and settling his lips around a swollen nipple.
Head thrown back, Ivonne clung to him, savoring the experience and storing away pr
ecious memories. The tender exploration of her breast with his mouth and tongue undid her. When he abandoned her breast, she almost cried out in protest. Then he nuzzled her neck, trailing delicate kisses across her jaw and cheek.
This wonderful, tender man would never be a father.
Joy mingled with sharp sorrow ravaged her emotions. Scalding tears slid from her eyes.
“You’re crying?” Falcon stiffened and leaned away, examining her. A shuttered expression settled on his face. “I apologize. I oughtn’t to have kissed you.”
He shifted, preparing to stand.
“No, Falcon. I wanted you to.”
With a volition of its own, her gaze skimmed his wounds. “It’s just that you ...”
She couldn’t explain her heartache to him. For him. That she grieved because he’d returned from India a partial man. To do so would cause him more pain and humiliation.
He stood, his face an impassive mask.
“I believe I understand perfectly, Miss Wimpleton. Once I satisfied your schoolgirl curiosity about kissing me,” he lifted his arm, mockery dripping from his voice, “my disfigurement repulsed you.”
Ivonne surged to her feet.
How can he think that?
She shook her head, her hair swirling about her shoulders and back. “No, you have it wrong. I’m not disgusted. I would never—”
“Spare me your feeble excuses.” He laughed, a cynical bark of amusement. “I’m well aware of how females react to my wounds, and your expression says much.”
His hostile gaze cut a wide swath across her vulnerable heart and sliced it open, leaving a gaping wound. Hands lifted palm upward in entreaty, she moved toward him.
He took a single step backward. Detached regard replaced the heated glimmer his eyes had held moments before.
The look froze her in place.
He despises me.
The knife twisted deeper into her bleeding heart.
Somehow, she must make him understand. “My tears are for what you’ve lost, Falcon, for what you’ll never have.”
He gathered his coat and then draped it across his unmarred arm.
“Or,” with bored nonchalance, he yawned behind his misshapen hand, “do you weep for what you’ll never have?”
She jerked her head as if he’d slapped her.
“You’ve proved yourself wholly disappointing.” After sketching a mocking bow, Falcon presented his back and strode from the room.
Ivonne stared at the vacant doorway. The pre-dawn chill roused her from her stupor as the library clock tolled the hour of three. She blinked several times in an attempt to gather her scattered wits. The agony of her shattered heart hurt far worse than the breaks in her legs ever had. Shivering, she hugged her shoulders.
Had Falcon kissed her to determine if she would measure up? And found her wanting?
Ivonne furrowed her brow. No, he wouldn’t do that. Would he?
She cast a glance toward the room’s entrance.
Perhaps the old Falcon wouldn’t have, but this new one ...?
Ivonne didn’t know what him capable of anymore. She took a shaky breath, fearing he had toyed with her. The notion sickened her. He’d become callous. His words, though softly spoken, lanced deeper than a short sword. She’d been ten times a fool to harbor any hope he regarded her with anything more than ... what?
Not brotherly affection, for certain. Their kiss proved that beyond measure. Inexperienced she might be, but he’d been every bit as engaged as she.
Or perhaps not.
Retying the sash at her waist, she curled her toes against the numbing cold permeating her feet and rising to her calves.
Rogues faked ardor and affection.
Mother had warned her of that very thing when, motivated by lust for her sizable settlement, particularly unsavory gentlemen had begun to pay Ivonne uncommon attention. Her heart rebelled at likening Falcon to that lot, yet he had refused to even listen to her explanation.
He called me wholly disappointing.
One at a time, Ivonne blew out Falcon’s candelabrum’s tapers. In the increasing gloom, doubt niggled. Had his wounds and the savagery of warfare made him angry and bitter? It appeared he’d changed much.
What was the exact nature of the damage to his male parts? She wasn’t supposed to know of such things, but as she matured, ladies became less cautious about what they whispered in her presence. She’d had quite an education these past two Seasons about men’s Man Thomases and whirligigs.
Nonetheless, she could claim more ignorance than knowledge.
Did men feel desire and have urges if that region was impaired? There wasn’t anyone she could ask. Mother would faint dead away, and Dawson, Ivonne’s aged abigail, would expire from apoplexy. To ask Father or Allen was unthinkable.
I say, Allen, Father, would you please explain to me precisely what losing one’s manhood entails? Don’t concern yourself with my delicate sensibilities. I assure you, I want to know every last detail.
She almost giggled, imagining their appalled reactions.
Perhaps Falcon had only lost the ability to father children. Was he intact?
Did it matter?
Her gaze drifted to the piano bench, where moments before she’d experienced her greatest joy.
No, it didn’t matter. Not to her.
Yes, she desired children, desperately. However, she wanted Falcon more. Besides, she’d already determined before he returned that spinsterhood was her fate. There’d be no brood of chubby-cheeked toddlers hanging on her skirts.
Ivonne smiled sadly and retrieved her candleholder.
She loved Falcon—deeply, gut-wrenchingly, beyond everything loved him. Loved him enough that she would marry him despite his disfigurement.
If he’d have her. Though truthfully, she stood a greater chance of weeping tears of gold.
A lifetime without him would be far bleaker than one deprived of children. Besides, waifs and orphans aplenty wandered London’s streets, desperate for a good home.
She released a hefty sigh. It mattered not.
Such imaginations were the stuff of nonsensical fairy-tales. She inhaled a tremulous breath. Hadn’t his reaction, his harsh words, proved his position?
He found her lacking.
Tears coursed down her cheeks. Ivonne made no attempt to wipe her face as she plodded toward her bedchamber.
This time, she did weep for what she would never have.
Her tears were short-lived, however. Before she reached the top riser of the curved stairway, her sorrow transformed to ire. Fury like none she had ever known burgeoned within her.
Enough of men acting like I am beneath their touch.
Falcon wasn’t that different from Captain Kirkpatrick and the other gentlemen in that regard. He ... they believed her drab, undesirable, disappointing.
Well, this dowdy mouse was about to make a bold transformation.
Newfound determination in her step, Ivonne marched to her chamber. No more being made sport of and pitied for her ordinary appearance. She was about to set London on its ear.
“Just you wait, gentlemen.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Miss Ivonne, wake up.” Dawson prodded Ivonne’s shoulder with a bony finger.
Ivonne groaned and forced her eyelids open. She raised a hand to her forehead and blinked away the grittiness in her eyes from too much crying and not enough sleep. Memories of last night and Falcon descended, the burden of their dual yoke weighing heavily upon her.
Seizing the jonquil velvet bed curtains, the maid swept them to either bedpost. “His lordship and her ladyship wish you to meet them in the study.”
Plucking at the embroidered counterpane topping her bed, Ivonne sighed. She longed to crawl beneath the silk coverlet and ignore her parents’ summons. She could claim to be indisposed. Truth to tell, she did feel rather awful. ... Until she remembered the plan she concocted last night. She barely refrained from an unladylike snicker and rubbing her hands together in glee
.
Moments later, Dawson threw open the heavy draperies. Sunlight blazed into the chamber, revealing a breakfast tray atop a dainty table situated before the balcony. A chemise, stockings, and a mint green morning dress trimmed in ecru lace lay draped across a rosewood fainting couch.
“I let you sleep as long as I could.” Dawson grinned, revealing her slightly crooked front teeth. “You didn’t stir a jot, even when I cleaned the grate.”
Ivonne yawned and sat up. She attempted to smooth her tangled hair. She ought to have plaited the mane before retiring. “I couldn’t sleep last night. The hour was after five when I finally dozed off.”
She gestured in the direction of the tray and gown. “I see you’ve been busy this morning.”
“Morning?” Dawson chuckled, deep wrinkles etching her face. She pointed to the boudoir clock. “Not for an hour.”
“It’s after one?” Ivonne stared in disbelief. She leaped from the bed, and then winced, laying a hand to her head. Pain thrummed behind her eyes. “I never sleep this late. What time am I to meet my parents?”
“Two o’clock. Sharp.” Dawson tucked a stray grayish-blonde strand of hair into her cap. “The master’s exact words.”
After a hasty washing and slightly less swift toilette, Ivonne gulped down two bites of toast and a swallow of tepid tea. She shot the clock a hurried glance. Three minutes to make the study. Though normally good-natured, Father didn’t abide tardiness.
So much for putting the scheme she’d hatched into action today, dash it all. With a little wave to Dawson, Ivonne hustled from her bedchamber. On second thought, this was better. It gave her more time to plot.
The first item on the agenda?
A secret meeting with her notorious second cousin, Emilia Leighton. A well-known demirep, Emmy seemed the perfect person to help Ivonne accomplish the task she’d set herself: transforming into an alluring creature no man could resist, least of all a golden-haired Greek god.
Not that I would have him after last night.
A wave of trepidation swept Ivonne. God help her if caught with Emmy. Turning a corner, Ivonne lifted her skirt and picked up her pace. Emmy wasn’t received by anyone in the family these days. Although if the on dit could be believed, she was most popular with the demimonde and gaming hell set.
