Alex had perused the poems, avoided the tea, and eaten with a gusto that had delighted Molly. Despite the feasts before her, Alex hadn’t been able to resist slipping a few rolls under her blanket. The memory of not knowing when her next meal would arrive was raw, and it had dug a hole in her stomach she felt she could never fill.
She had inquired about Kendall only to be informed he had left the house and had yet to return. Molly didn’t know his whereabouts, and Alex did not probe. She thought he would have stopped in at least once to inquire about her welfare, but when he never appeared, she decided she didn’t care.
It was of no interest, nor any concern of hers how Kendall spent his time or where he went. However, it was a relief to wake up the next morning and be informed that Kendall expected her to meet him in the drawing room at nine o’clock sharp.
Despite it sounding like a military directive, as if she were one of his soldiers to command, Alex was prepared to face him—until she opened the wardrobe and faced her gentlemen’s attire. Oh, dear. It would be slow going to deal with the pads to thicken her waist and bind her chest. And without Gus to assist with her cravat…she froze. Gus.
Sad, sweet, useless Gus.
She sank back onto the bed. Kendall had said he would escort her home to collect her things and there would be…Gus.
More important, how would Gus be? Sober? She doubted it. Not since Meg’s death. She closed her eyes against the wave of grief at the memory of her cherished nanny, who had all but raised her. Dearest Meg, whom her aunt had callously dismissed after her uncle had inherited her parents’ estate. It was to Meg that Alex had escaped when her uncle had closed all other doors to her.
Months had passed since Meg had died of the influenza. While Alex’s grief remained raw, the damage to Meg’s husband, Gus, had been irrevocable. A war veteran, Gus had taken the loss of his leg and the sale of her father’s stables with stoic fortitude. But Meg’s death had broken him, taking the reliable, hardworking Gus with her. The Gus left behind periodically roused himself for the odd job, but more often than not, the most he managed was a trip to the local tavern.
At least drowned in a bottle, Gus wouldn’t worry over Alex’s disappearance. He could also be sleeping off his drink at a friend’s, one of the other veterans who haunted the same tavern as Gus.
Ignoring the stab of guilt at the traitorous thought, Alex stood. It was time to get dressed. Time to leave and move forward.
Her future lay ahead with this enigmatic man and their odd alliance. With a fortune hers to gain, her future looked brighter. That is, if she reined in her temper as her father had so often advised her to do. She frowned, for she had never been good at heeding her father’s advice. Then again, her father’s advice had never been good to her, either.
She needed to play her cards right, and perhaps, just perhaps, she could change her fortunes and salvage her future.
WITH MOLLY’S ASSISTANCE, Alex was once more dressed in her masculine disguise, minus her cravat. The complicated necktie eluded both Alex and Molly’s attempts to form it into any semblance of a fashionable knot. In the end, Alex draped the material around her neck, squared her shoulders, and followed Molly from the room. She’d deal with it later.
As she traversed the long corridor, her eyes drank in her surroundings. A home reflected its owner, and she looked for signs of Kendall and keys to unlocking the man.
Light stole through the window at the end of the hall and cast a soft glow over the Oriental carpet. A statue of a toga-draped beauty lounged in a sinuous pose on a hallway table, while the marble staircase wound its way to the front foyer. The house exuded wealth, but not an ostentatious display. It was elegant and understated, lovely.
Alex paused, unable to resist glancing behind her. When her eyes fastened on the painting gracing the back wall, like Lot’s wife, she regretted her action. She didn’t need to see this portrait. To see this woman whom she instantly identified.
Kristen. Kendall’s mistress. Whom else could she be? It was brazen to so prominently display it, but that was Kendall.
She was beautiful. Thick auburn hair tumbled over her bare shoulders, and her golden eyes were warm and bright. A Madonna smile curved her lips, teasing Alex, taunting her. Her skin looked as porcelain smooth as the alabaster Greek statue Alex had passed. Her gown was a deep emerald green and pearls draped her neck.
Alex noted her beauty, but it was Kendall’s words that resonated with her. She loves me. Something lurched in Alex’s chest and she spun away from the woman’s laughing, knowing gaze. She hastened her steps to catch up with Molly. In the back recesses of her mind, she wondered if Kendall returned the sentiment. She squelched the thought. It really was of no import to her.
Before she reached the first floor, she glanced up in time to see Kendall emerge from a room to the right of the landing.
He was impeccably dressed in black-and-gray-striped trousers and a pristine black jacket that hugged his broad shoulders. He leaned against the doorframe, flipped open a gold pocket watch, and scowled down at it. “You are twenty minutes late and”—his eyes lifted and dipped to her loose necktie—“not finished dressing.” He snapped the watch cover closed and straightened, watching her expectantly.
Alex stopped a few steps above the landing, her hand resting on the mahogany banister, and peered down at him, appreciating her superior position. “My apologies. Had I known I was being timed, I would have sent Molly ahead to inform you that I needed more of it.”
Kendall arched an imperious brow, while returning his watch to his trousers pocket. “Come here.” When she made no move to obey, he crossed to her.
Before she realized his intent, he had caught both ends of her cravat and tugged her before him. “What are you doing?” She gasped. Her hands clutched his wrists as she staggered down two steps until she stood on the bottom stair. She regarded him balefully.
“Getting you dressed.” Without another word, he proceeded to flip the ends of the linen cloth together.
She turned her head to hide her mortification. His fingers were warm against the bare skin of her neck, branding where they touched. His movements were quick and dexterous, dispensing with a neat four-in-hand knot. She could smell his masculine scent mixed with his cologne. Heat suffused her cheeks and her breathing became shallow. Once again, the man was too damn close for her comfort.
Undoubtedly, Kendall, being a rake, didn’t give the intimacy of their situation undue thought. No matter, Alex gave it enough for both of them. With the exception of dancing, standing this close to a gentleman was scandalous, and she didn’t dare contemplate what etiquette lines his touching, let alone dressing, her crossed.
As soon as he moved away from her, she would speak to Kendall about his familiarity. It had to stop. While she had agreed to their arrangement, she had not agreed to anything else. She thought she had made this point clear when she told him she would not be his mistress. His memory must be short, or he was too accustomed to women tripping over their feet to be near him.
There was no denying his magnetism. He was undeniably handsome. His thick black hair mere inches from her looked soft as silk and…she blinked. She had lost her train of thought. Something about mistresses?
She couldn’t think when he stood so close. His finger tipped her chin up, her perch on the bottom step placing her almost at eye level with him. Her breath caught as she stared into those compelling eyes, storm-cloud gray and locked on hers.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting. Remember that next time.”
Just who did he think he was? She removed his hand from her chin. “Next time ask me, rather than order me. You forget, you are no longer in the military, and I am not one of your men to submissively obey your directives.” Heat burned her cheeks, but she did not back down, even when his eyes narrowed and his lips thinned.
He studied her like some curious specimen in a laboratory or one of those newfangled machines on display at the Great Exhibition. After a drawn-out moment, he s
tepped away. “You’re right again. You are certainly not submissive. Pity.” His eyes roamed over her, lingered on her trousers. When they lifted to hers, a slow and devastating smile curved his lips. “But I can teach you.”
She sucked in a sharp breath.
“Again, perhaps when we know each other better.” He grinned and turned to the door. “We should go. We are late.”
She glared at his broad back, adding arrogance to his annoying qualities. They were adding up, and it did not bode well for a smooth working relationship.
He glanced back. “You coming? Oh, my apologies, was that an order? Please, will you join me?” He bowed, but not before she caught the twitch to his lips and the gleam in his eyes. He swept his arm out for her to precede him.
She lifted her chin and strode ahead of him. There were advantages to being dressed as a man. She need not wait for the door to be opened for her. She unlocked it, swung it open, and let herself out. With great delight, she slammed it shut behind her.
On the front stoop, she withdrew her gloves from her jacket pocket and jerked them on. Arrogant, insolent, and impossible. She didn’t know which would top Kendall’s list of character flaws, but its growing length worried her.
GARRETT BLINKED AT the closed door. By God, they could have used her at Balaclava. When Cardigan had commanded the Light Brigade’s charge through the valley of death, Miss Daniels would have flatly refused the suicidal directive and told the Ignorant Ass to go to hell. Think of the lives she would have saved.
Over six hundred seventy men had ridden into the valley of death. After the battle, only one hundred ninety-five remained fit for duty. The latter hadn’t included him. He rubbed his side, the jagged scar from his near-fatal wound a stark reminder.
He shook his head, admiring her courage. Admiring her.
Who the hell was she?
He wanted to know more, needed to. He frowned, recalling her earlier reference to starving. What circumstances had forced her to turn away from the respectable venues presented to a young woman in need of funds? There was a story there and it wasn’t good. She was fleeing something or someone. Not the law or a husband. Her adamant refusals on these points, along with her indignation at this line of questioning, attested to the truth of her words. It was something else.
A jilted lover? Family? He grunted at the latter and dismissed the former. She had made it clear she was not of mistress stock. Pity there. An image of her blue eyes shooting daggers at him and her thick blonde hair, now hidden under that ridiculous wig, teased him. He recalled the color spotting her cheeks when he’d dropped Kit’s name.
No, she was a brave but prissy thing. An innocent. He didn’t dally with innocents. Such play led to marriage, and he had no intentions of strolling down that aisle. But this revelation about Miss Daniels confirmed another point; she came from good breeding.
Her speech, poise, and classical beauty attested to it. She was raised to be a lady, thus to adhere to society’s strict standards of etiquette. This explained her wariness in flaunting their rules. Yet she did so, again and again. She did what she needed to do to survive. Her words echoed, some risks are worth taking.
He noted again what a fine soldier she would have made. However, he had no regrets that Miss Daniels was not in the Crimea or a soldier. He flexed his fingers where the touch of her skin lingered. He recalled the swanlike column of her neck, her shallow breathing as he knotted her cravat, and her slim body inches from his. He approved of her trousers, but lamented the length of her jacket that covered pertinent body parts. No, he harbored no regrets. For now, Miss Daniels was just where he wanted her. With him.
All he had to do was learn who the hell she was.
Stepping outside, he stopped short at the sight of Miss Daniels. She appeared rooted to the edge of the lower landing, planted in place. Her attention was riveted to the gleaming black carriage parked in the drive and the emerald green Warren crest sporting the three gold lions.
“Miss Daniels, are you all right?”
“Whose carriage is this?” she asked, not glancing at him.
“It’s the Earl of Warren’s. As you know, mine is in need of repairs, and this one is safer, not marked for target practice. Wouldn’t you agree?” He caught her arm to escort her forward, her steps slow and reluctant.
“Yes, yes. Of course.”
Havers circled the carriage to open the door for them. When his gaze narrowed on Garrett’s hand on Miss Daniels’s arm, Garrett abruptly released her. He needed to clarify Daniels’s gender to Havers, but now was not the time. “Havers, we will be traveling to…?” He turned to Daniels, letting his questions trail off expectantly.
“Oh, Chelsea.” She supplied the address, still looking distracted.
West of London, Chelsea was not a fashionable area of the city. Then again, any address outside of the West End was dismissed by the ton. Garrett knew the area for the Chelsea Hospital. War veterans, old and without proper means or family, were given beds there. He frowned, unable to picture Alex residing in the area.
Havers turned to climb onto the box. Garrett had no patience for him hovering to close the door behind them. Some niceties made Garrett feel more like an invalid than a gentleman.
Miss Daniels made to step into the carriage but gasped when he gripped her waist and lifted her inside. She glanced back, pink cheeked and flustered, murmuring her thanks before she took her seat. It was the second time he had assisted her into a carriage. He regretted not having appreciated the first, recalling his hand on her buttock.
He vaulted into the carriage, securing the door behind him. He noted she had claimed the seat facing forward as a lady should. Garrett hated riding backward. With a look that dared her to protest, he settled into the seat beside her. She raised a brow but faced the window, not challenging him. There were advantages to this cool, practical side of hers. He settled back in his seat and appreciated this one as he tapped his hand on the back panel, signaling Havers to depart.
For the first few blocks they rode in silence. The only noise was the low rumble of the carriage crossing the paved streets. Garrett studied his companion’s profile, noting how she gnawed on her lower lip. He wondered what was on her mind and the tip of her tongue, but he didn’t have long to wait.
“I heard a story about the Earl of Warren.” She spoke without facing him.
Relaxing, he grinned. “Just one? How disappointing. There are so many.”
She glanced over to him and then away.
“Let me guess?” He pursed his lips and discounted most of his and Brandon’s earlier escapades and the more risqué ones. She was too young and innocent to have heard those. “The Market Theatre?” At the telltale flush on her cheeks, he nodded. “Yes, that one got the most gossip. What did you hear?”
When she did not respond, he couldn’t resist. “You heard he and a friend purchased the theater for the actress Lily Blake so she could star in all the productions. She was—”
“Mistress to two earls,” she interceded and gave him her full attention. “Warren purchased the theater with some friend, a notorious rakehell who was rumored to collect and discard young women with as much frequency as Beau Brummell sailed through cravats.” She raised a brow. “The friend was a known debaucher of innocents. Women are warned they risk ruin merely by being in his presence.” Her eyes held a hint of challenge as if she dared him to refute the rumors.
His hand covered his mouth as he coughed to hide his surprise. “Excuse me, I, ah…that part of the story I hadn’t heard.” He narrowed his eyes on her, wondering if she played him for a fool.
“What part did you hear?” She tipped her head to the side and regarded him with wide-eyed innocence.
“Ah, something about Lily Blake being Warren’s mistress,” he offered.
Debaucher of innocents? He had heard the Brummell quote differently, made in reference to married women. Supposedly he ran through them with the same frequency that Brummell changed fashions. At least that one had
held a kernel of truth. But he couldn’t keep straight what the gossip mill churned out about him. Didn’t give a damn. Never had. He found Miss Daniels watching him. Apparently, she had more to add.
“Warren and his friend set up Lily Blake, and each night they escorted a parade of different women to their boxes to watch her performances.”
He cocked a brow at her relish in imparting this salacious bit of gossip, an odd gleam lighting her eyes. He sought to steer the conversation in a safer direction. Away from him. “Have you ever seen Lily Blake perform? She is without rival in the theater. It is said that her Juliet brings women to tears.”
“Do you think it was her acting or the men’s callous use of Miss Blake that brought them to tears?” she asked in all seriousness.
“That would depend on where these women stand in regard to the gossip.”
“Where they stand?”
“If they believe the rumors or not.”
“It is generally believed most rumors are based in truth,” she said.
“Most rumors begin with a kernel of truth,” he clarified. “A group of people called gossipmongers nurture its growth. They possess wagging tongues and a desperate need to be heard, but they have nothing of their own import to say. So they steal this kernel of news, water it with their ignorance, and it grows into gossip.” He shrugged. “Or if given its proper name, lies, innuendoes, and slander.”
She smiled. “You didn’t strike me as the philosophizing type.”
Her comment and the smile disarmed him, silencing his retort. It was the first smile she had given him, and it loosened something in his body, a tension he hadn’t known he carried. He shifted in his seat. “I have my moments.” She had beautiful eyes, a clear, luminous blue with long lashes. When she smiled, they glowed like two full moons.
Good God, he was using trite clichés and pontificating about rumors like a pompous windbag. What had gotten into him? She was lowering a guard he carried like a second skin, a shell honed in life and hardened in battle. He didn’t like it.
For the Love of a Soldier Page 8
