by Laura Hogg
"Wait. I offer my apologies. You're right. She is too lovely to laugh at. I have a high regard for her. Pray understand; it was mention of the unusual name."
"Your behavior would offend her. She would never find herself in amiable establishment with a sarcastic, self-important man such as you. You appear more the Viking of days of old than a nobleman, my lord, with your ashy-blond hair and tall stature, despite your greatcoat and Hessians. I imagine you on a ship from Norway on your way to battle with a sword and shield in your hand or perhaps an ax."
The Viscount frowned. “What's amiss with my appearance? I am quite the gentleman, and dashing. Women flock to me!"
Raphael rolled his eyes, but the feelings behind the expression seemed to melt. “How charming that is. I'm sure you have plenty of left-handed wives, my lord, concubines abounding."
Raphael grinned without warning, scanning him up and down as if admiring the tall, strongly-built man before looking the Viscount in the eyes with the sudden confidence of a warrior.
The Viscount wondered at the change in the boy. “Are you one of Miss Moore's associates, then?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I believe you would be. You could not be family, a protector perhaps. I want to know her.” Lord Cheltham was serious.
Raphael jeered at him, seeming to hide a smug secret, and his brow lifted a tiny bit as if he were struggling to contain a wicked grin. “Really? Why?"
Lord Cheltham spoke in lower tones now, his heart beating rapidly with thoughts of holding Miss Moore. “I have my reasons.” Liveliness rushed over him whenever he brought her to mind. He ran his fingers through his hair.
"I doubt your reasons would be to Relief's advantage.” Raphael patted his horse's neck.
The Viscount smiled. He knew he was very attractive, and he believed this would capture Relief's interest. Proudly, he spoke. “The blame is not my own. Hold my parents accountable for producing such an exquisite son."
"I work for Miss Moore, but I am not prepared to give the office on that matter."
Raphael looked over at Joan through the open coach door, as did the Viscount. Her chin rested on her chest, and her eyes were closed.
"I'm going to know Miss Moore.” He turned back to Raphael, who gazed back at him.
Raphael twitched his jaw. “My lord, you are mistaken there. She's also independent, even for a woman. She's proud, and perhaps a bit vain. I am well acquainted with her."
"I see.” He grinned with confident smugness and gestured with open arms, dropped his hands and then shrugged. “It seems we have qualities in common."
Raphael frowned down at him. There was something odd about this boy. He wanted to talk with him longer; exhilaration rushed through his veins.
"Tomorrow come never; you'll not have her. You'll not appeal to her sensibilities. She has unusual taste in gentlemen."
"You know Miss Moore well?"
"Yes."
A shot of irritation coursed through him. He wanted Raphael to elaborate. “I have not been able to procure a meeting with her in several months. In truth, I have visited New York more than once, fascinated with her from the start. Perhaps you could—” He inclined his head. “I have wanted to pay court to her since then. It was an instant reaction to her.” He chided himself for not applying to her father.
Raphael's eyes were glued to his with his great interest. The Viscount continued. “One day I saw her standing beside three devilishly proud-looking New Yorkers—"
Raphael's lips turned up at one corner. He seemed to agree with that assessment of the men. “Those were her brothers and father. She dreamed of discovering England. They allowed her to take temporary residence in London with her brother and sister accompanying her. They also brought along an old neighbor, Mrs. Miller, really as a matter of charity."
Happy surprise lit him up. She was in London now! “I should understand the protection."
"Also, there is a mystery to be solved."
"A mystery?"
"Yes, my lord. Her uncle's pink diamond was stolen, and she believes—” He stopped abruptly and bent his head to study his feet.
"Sir?"
"I have said too much.” His gaze came up.
The Viscount considered him and decided not to press the issue. A groan snatched their attention, and they glanced at the driver who was rubbing his head.
Visions of the lovely heiress Miss Moore filled Lord Cheltham's mind. His heart pinched with strong desire to know her. He'd never before been so intrigued with a woman.
Lord Cheltham turned back to the American boy whose hand ran smoothly down the horse's mane.
"When I saw her at that convention in New York, she seemed to gazed at me over people across a room. I do hope she was drawn to me,” Lord Cheltham said. He remembered how his ideal woman had looked into his eyes, reached for him, promised to rescue him from what had haunted his soul for the past decade.
Raphael shifted from one small foot to the other. “Are you certain she gazed upon you, my lord?"
"With sad, longing eyes before her angry brother put his large, protective arm across her. She sighed in disappointment. I saw it. She wanted to meet me."
Raphael lowered his head a notch but not his eyes, regarding him with deliberate intention. “Something weighs upon you,” the boy said with uncanny accuracy.
The Viscount wondered about his chances with Miss Moore. Why would Relief feel for a stranger? Why does my heart tell me only I can help her? What I have done in the past and what I have done to make up for it taught me more than I should know at my twenty years.
"I have learned to live with what troubles me,” Lord Cheltham finished as sudden blackness shrouded his heart, making it heavy.
Two
The boy cast a glance inside the carriage.
"Your sister has gone to the lovely land of nod, my lord. I fancy she is skipping along the fields of green, plucking more than a few blooms."
"What?” He chuckled.
He followed the direction of the boy's glance. Joan's eyes remained closed.
"I believe she may be feigning, perhaps hinting we should quit this place."
"I think your sister is drooling,” the boy teased.
Lord Cheltham grinned. “She can be convincing.” The tiniest grin rested on Joan's lips, and a small snoring sound escaped.
"Yes, the hour grows late, Joan.” Lord Cheltham smiled in a good-natured manner. He turned to the boy standing before him, drawn to him in a way he couldn't quite explain. He was enjoying their chat.
"Did you kill that highwayman?” The Viscount knit his brows, now serious.
Raphael had been glancing at his feet. Suddenly lashes a bit heavy for a young man flew up in surprise. The Viscount gasped, noticing this. What is it about this boy? He wondered. A disturbing knot formed in the pit of his stomach.
"No. We fought. I hammered him in the grubbery.” Raphael sliced the air with one fist. “When I lifted my arm to hit him with the intention of knocking him insensible, he hit me.” His cheeks turned red with this last comment.
"Where?” The Viscount scanned him, head to toe; then to his complete surprise, visions of the lovely Miss Moore flooded his mind.
Raphael was Miss Moore's approximate height. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest now, regarding the Viscount sternly. In the Viscount's vision of Miss Moore, she smiled, and feminine essence flowed from her.
"In the ... upper regions,” the boy mumbled.
"What?” Lord Cheltham said then chuckled, shaken from his dream. “In your head?"
"Lower."
First confusion and then amazement surged through him as he realized Raphael was referring to his chest. Lord Cheltham laughed inwardly, thinking that maybe the boy was not as tough as he tried to sound.
"I see,” he said with the most reasonable voice that he could produce. He watched Raphael for an extended moment. Miss Moore's smiling face intruded happily in his thoughts again.
Raphael's gaze narrowed.
The Viscount suppressed a smile.
"Could you arrange a meeting between Miss Moore and me?” He rested his hands on his hips.
Raphael raised a brow. “You speak of her again?"
"Yes,” Lord Cheltham muttered. “Your presence, for whatever reason, brings her strongly to mind."
Raphael shifted from one foot to the other. “My lord, perhaps if you met publicly first..."
Lord Cheltham sighed and thought, She is going to save me.
Raphael's lip quivered and formed into a smile.
"After the opera tomorrow, I'll meet you in front of the theater. She will be attending the performance. We can discuss the matter,” Raphael said.
Lord Cheltham's heart sang with gladness.
"Permit me a few minutes after the curtain is drawn,” Raphael added.
"Thank you. Give my regard to Miss Moore, will you be so kind?"
"I'll warn her of you and your conceit."
"Pray, good sir, do not give a negative account of me."
"Hmm.” Raphael smirked.
"I'm going to win over my lovely heiress. I must. So she's vain, but I don't care.” He breathed out these last words.
"And as for the women who swoon around you, that would never suit her.” Raphael rolled his eyes and tossed his hand in the air sarcastically.
"She would demand my full attention, Mr. Taylor?"
"Your full devotion, my lord."
"She wants to be put on a pedestal. How's a man like me to make room for her up there?"
"You would have to figure it out. She's proud of the family she comes from."
Lord Cheltham swallowed a scoff. “My family is titled, and hers is not."
"I will tell Leafy you said so."
"No! I beg you.” He chuckled. “Say nothing at all."
Raphael shrugged. “We'll see."
"Until tomorrow."
"My lord, now that you are tolerably safe, I may return to her."
Lord Cheltham smiled, and hope surged through him as he watched Raphael jump upon the back of the fine white stallion and trot away.
"Finally!” Joan snapped. “I was growing weary of the charade. You certainly took your leisure!” she said and rubbed the back of her neck.
The Viscount offered his sister a smile of contentment. He glanced at the retreating Raphael; his heart teeming with admiration for the boy. The lad could ride, fight, and he was acquainted with the woman who stirred him powerfully.
* * * *
Once he was at home, he sat in his private office and thought of Miss Moore. He would search for the means to enter her life; the life of the one woman he feared would not so easily sink into the warmth of his embrace. He had a reputation with women and had told his friends about the American beauty that he intended to pursue. Typically his friends smiled, shook their heads, and congratulated him on his masculine prowess. Now it was finally time to seriously pursue her.
He had read every article he could find on Miss Moore and her family and remembered how lovely she appeared in her white gown, standing next to the intimidating male members of her family. It was her one-sided smile that he loved so much, reflecting pleasure in her sparkling eyes. Those eyes and that smile promised adventure and passion.
Oh, to forget all propriety, dash his way through the crowd, pull her into his arms, and kiss her. Sweet sighs would spill from her lips as he sunk his fingers into her hair and pressed his body into hers.
Lord Cheltham's heart sped up just upon bringing her image to his mind. He fisted and unclenched his sweaty hands a couple of times and smiled as he thought of just being with her. Alone in his luxurious bed, he would lower her onto his thick blanket, slip her gown from her and love her more than he had ever loved a woman before. He would smile all the time, and his heart would be light. Somehow, he knew she would make him feel uninhibited.
He liked her hair, longer than the latest fashion, from what he could discern. Most ladies wore their hair inches shorter than she did. Seeing her in America gave him the opportunity to see her locks down. He'd never seen that here except in the bedroom. Her hair shined with sandy-red highlights against the backdrop of rivers of dazzling brown, waves cascading over pale shoulders he longed to touch.
Her smile was devastating. He had seen her in the convention room looking at something with the corners of her lips turned up. He followed her gaze to an open doorway and wondered what had caught her attention. Jealousy burned him that day and every time he thought of the episode, wondering if she had been dreaming of a man. He prayed not. He pressed his hands onto his desktop in front of him.
An American, an exotic, intriguing American. I am obsessed with a lady from New York. He chuckled softly. No other woman had been able to wipe Miss Moore from his heart.
He blinked back to the present, tense and flustered, and let out a slow breath, dying to meet her.
* * * *
"Leafy, it's ready.” Her younger sister by one year, the eighteen-year-old Honora, handed Relief the silver bowl containing the cleanser.
"Thank you.” Relief smiled, liking the nickname her sister called her by, and accepted the froth. She scrubbed the grease from her hair with the beaten egg whites. While Honora sat on a Rosewood Chaise Lounge leaning against the scrolled upholstered arm reading the gazette, Leafy allowed the mixture on her head to dry then washed it out completely, rinsing it with a mixture of rum and rose-scented water. Next came the routine scrubbing of a rag roughly over her smooth skin to remove the makeup that detracted from her natural beauty.
What a fine mood to be in now, after the oh-so-lovely encounter with the most self-important man ever!
Honora handed her a soft towel.
Leafy could still see the Viscount standing before her with his sarcastic smile and easy-going nature. Then she pictured a group of women sighing at his feet and gritted her teeth.
"My thanks to a Lady of Distinction, and her Mirror of Graces for this glorious recipe!” Relief said, shaking her head, referring to the cleanser and brightener found in an etiquette book. “Arrogant Viscount,” she mumbled as an afterthought.
"What are you saying about a Viscount, Leafy?"
Leafy cleared her throat.
"His lordship believes he's going to pay court to Relief, uh, I mean me, Miss Relief Moore of New York! It matters not that he's nobility. We are American elites!” she stated, raising her tone aristocratically, “A part of high society and his equal. There are a hundred men Father might choose to tie me to, all of them worthy. Why should Lord Cheltham assume he could court me? He has a title, yes, but we have money and are known by more people in this world then he, I dare say!"
She knew very well that his title gave him a distinct advantage above other suitors, but her pride dictated that she be pursued only by men who had eyes strictly for her. Or, as she saw it, her romantic nature demanded this.
"I have not read his name in the papers recently,” Honora offered, with smugness. She made an elegant gesture with her hand.
Leafy rubbed the towel vigorously over her head.
Honora smiled and clapped her hands. “He couldn't see that it was you!"
"Perhaps, sister, but I hate that I have to let that vexing strand of hair fall over my eye when I am talking to people. And my dirt-smudged face!” She sighed. “Well, it helps that I practice lowering my voice so often."
She bent down, leaning over in her Mahogany Armchair to touch her toes.
"Notice the position of my diaphragm and the modulation of my voice as I speak."
Honora dropped her gaze. “It lowers your tone."
"Yes, this is an efficient way to practice."
Leafy sat up and glanced over at her room full of costumes lying about and the various pieces of clothing that she had collected over the years. She scanned the ensemble of an adolescent boy she had recently worn. Pads were sewn into the shoulders and waist to give her a more masculine appearance. She stood up and walked a few steps.
"Leafy?” H
onora stepped close to her.
"Your arms—"
She held them out in a theatrical way. “What about my arms?” Leafy grinned.
"You now walk with them closer to your body, and your head is lowered just a touch.” Honora imitated her sister's mannerism.
"I have to be convincing because men take up more room, Honora. They take bigger steps as well. The movement of the body and the gait is noticeable, but sometimes subtle. I have practiced the smallest details.” Leafy demonstrated first the smaller more feminine steps, then the bigger masculine strides.
"You have studied this well, Leafy."
"You are a master with my makeup. Your fine work allowed me to study a would-be lover."
"The Viscount was exceptional, Leafy?” Honora touched her shoulder.
"Yes, Honora, he was tall, muscular, and deeply attractive. His closeness rendered my breathing shallower and made me breathe quicker. I felt strength coming from him. I liked the figure he cut in his well-tailored clothes and his sense of humor."
She thought of how he carried himself elevated and sure with an easy confidence. She ran her hands down the sides of her gown.
"He was very pleasant but incredibly self-important. Even if I wanted to, and perhaps I do, I would never give him the pleasure now. He admitted that women fall at his feet. Hah! Not this one! I do not appreciate it when a man expects to win my attention.” She placed her hands on her hips.
"What a shame, Leafy.” Honora frowned.
"What do you say about him having the pluck to announce that he's going to court me?"
Honora laughed. “I dare say that is true arrogance."
"Yes."
"Or true love."
Relief scoffed. “I cannot readily believe that. I can't imagine being leg-shackled to a swaggering nobleman. He believes he will use his title to buy me.” She cursed under her breath.
"I will never become accustomed to that.” Honora paced a step, stopped, and looked at her sister.
"To what, Honora?” Leafy narrowed her eyes, wondering to what she was referring.
"You speak eight languages quite elegantly because of your other hobby, but yet I have heard you curse in all of them!"
