Chancey Faulkenhurst.
Falcon.
His handsome face forced its way to the forefront of her mind. After all this time, he’d returned. Her imprudent heart beat faster. Why did he have to return now, when she’d finally put him behind her? When she was crippled and considered past her prime? When he could never be hers?
Ivonne opened her eyes and shook her head. A rose petal floated to the floor. His homecoming changed nothing.
Locating a table with mirrors, assorted fripperies, hair pins, and such, she took a seat. After yanking off her gloves, she set them aside and went about haphazardly repinning her mass of hair.
Falcon had spent many hours in the garden nook with her—until he’d left for India. She had pleaded with her parents for two weeks straight before they finally relented and gave her permission to correspond with him, as long as they read every letter first.
A flush of chagrin heated her face. What they must have thought. She’d been such a fawning, green girl.
She’d not heard from Falcon once during his absence. Not a single page, though she’d written to him every week the first year. At sixteen, she’d believed her heart would never recover when she finally accepted he wasn’t going to answer her letters. She’d brooded about in a fit of the blue devils for months.
If he’d cared an iota for her, he would have written. Not a single line in six years sent an indisputable message. He wasn’t interested. She was no featherbrain. She’d misinterpreted his kindness and thoughtfulness for something more.
Something which would never be.
Ivonne had come to realize her childish dream of marrying him had been just that: a silly, unattainable fantasy. Somehow, the knowledge alleviated her girlish infatuation, although over the years, she hadn’t become enamored of anyone else. Nor had she encouraged other suitors’ attentions either—not that there’d been a horde of them to begin with.
Nonetheless, a part of her heart would always belong to Falcon. She had resolutely tucked that piece away and refused to extract the fragment from its snug resting place. The remainder of her heart she kept guarded, not willing to suffer such torment again. Once in a lifetime was quite enough, thank you.
As much as she once adored him, years’ worth of callous indifference had created a chasm between them. She would never trust her emotions again, especially not love.
She supposed that’s why she’d been accused of being unapproachable and standoffish.
On one occasion, she overheard a group of gentlemen suggest that the swan ice sculpture their hosts commissioned for the Yuletide gala possessed more personality and warmth than she. One dandy had mockingly called her Icy Ivonne. The others sniggered in obvious agreement.
Truth to tell, she compared every man to Falcon, and all came up wanting.
She paused and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
The woman peering back at her wasn’t disagreeable nor was she particularly noteworthy. Clear hazel eyes, more oval than round and almost green in the candlelight, were her best feature besides her alabaster skin. A rather square chin, pert mouth with too full lips, and straight dark hair of a nondescript shade of brown completed her inventory.
No, a diamond of the first water she wasn’t. Falcon possessed the beauty she lacked. Men weren’t supposed to be beautiful, but to describe him otherwise, didn’t do him justice.
No other male possessed eyes quite the same gray-blue as he, like the sea after a mighty winter tempest. A hint of humor and kindness always glimmered in their thick-lashed depths. High cheekbones and a straight aristocratic nose, combined with those sculpted lips and his dark blond hair streaked with gold ... she released a long, shuddering breath.
He was as close to Adonis in the flesh as she’d ever seen. She’d been paraded before young dandies and bucks aplenty, and although handsome, some profoundly so, all paled in comparison to Falcon.
Ivonne frowned.
He bore a fresh scar on his cheek. In the arbor’s muted light, the mark barely showed. His hair had gleamed gold, more than she remembered, though his eyes seemed darker.
Cooler. Distant.
Icy Ivonne she might be, but Falcon’s smile possessed the ability to transform her into a mass of melted flummery. Only, now, she neared her third and twentieth birthday and no longer wore her emotions on her sleeve like a flighty girl.
He’d never learn how he affected her.
Securing the last pin, she scrutinized her attempt to repair her coiffure. She patted the back of her head, unable to tell if all her hair was in place. True, the style wasn’t the elaborate coiled knot Dawson created earlier this evening, but at least her locks weren’t tumbling down her back in shocking disarray.
Ivonne twisted to examine the chamber. Where were the sewing supplies?
The door flew open and several women filed in.
Lydia Farnsworth smiled kindly before disappearing behind a screen.
The Dundercroft sisters, Francine and Lyselle, tripped to a stop, as did their constant companion, Penelope Rossington.
Perfect.
Three of London’s worst rumormongers with scarcely a speck of common sense amongst them.
Barrett scooted past the ladies. She dipped a curtsy.
“Oh, Miss Wimpleton, please excuse my absence. I had to fetch more towels.” She lifted the stack of snowy cloths she held. “The ladies have suffered dreadfully from the heat this evening.”
Ivonne smiled. “It’s quite all right. I need to mend my gown. It sustained a minor tear when I was in the garden.”
A petite, shapely blonde, Miss Rossington glided further into the room. Uncommonly attractive, she knew it well.
Ivonne stifled a gasp. Had Miss Rossington dampened her gown?
That’s what came of having no mother, an overindulgent father, and the morals of a barnyard cat.
Ivonne’s modest endowments appeared childlike next to such curvaceousness. Of course, if she puffed her chest out in the same manner, she’d appear more buxom too. Walking about aiming one’s bosoms skyward must cause a fierce backache and wreak havoc on one’s balance.
Not worth the discomfort or danger.
She prayed the attention Allen directed toward Miss Rossington was driven by politeness and not any intent on his part to court the wench. A slight shudder shook her. A worse sister-in-law she couldn’t imagine.
“Whatever were you doing that you tore your gown, Miss Wimpleton?” Miss Rossington’s gaze focused on the mirror behind Ivonne. Her citrine eyes—the exact same shade as Ivonne’s ancient cat, Sir Pounce—rounded. A smirk curved Miss Rossington’s ruby-tinted lips.
Captain Kirkpatrick. Blast him to Hades.
The freckled Dundercroft misses tittered behind their pudgy hands.
Ivonne stared at the trio, a chill causing the flesh on her arms to pucker.
What Banbury Tales had the captain concocted when he’d come inside? Alarm and shame engulfed her. What would she say to her parents? How could she explain this bumblebroth away without partially blaming Falcon for claiming she was promised?
“Is it true?” Miss Rossington advanced another few mincing steps. She cast her cohorts a secretive smile. “You’ve managed to get yourself affianced at long last?”
Heaven help me.
“I ...” Ivonne swallowed, dread drying her mouth. She loathed lying.
“Who is he?” Envy twisted the corners of the elder Miss Dundercroft’s thin lips.
“Yes, do tell.” Miss Lyselle fairly danced in anticipation. Her plump bosoms and curls bounced with her excitement. She clapped her hands together. “Do we know him? Is he here tonight?”
“Is that why you’ve shrubbery in your mussed hair and your dress is torn?” Miss Rossington swept her hand across her perfectly styled flaxen hair. Her diamond and sapphire bracelet shimmered in the candlelight. She smiled, a malicious glint in her feline eyes.
She tittered unkindly. “Your hair looks like an owl in an ivy bush ... a-la-blowze.”
<
br /> Poufy? Still?
Ivonne touched her hair and peered into the mirror over her shoulder.
Miss Rossington snuck up behind her. In one deft move, she plucked something from Ivonne’s hair. She displayed the coral petal for the others to see.
A fresh round of giggles erupted from the Dundercrofts. Glee pinkened their already ruddy complexions. Bright red blotches covered their faces, chests, and arms.
Miss Kingsley appeared behind them.
Ivonne’s breath caught. She was in attendance tonight? Did Allen know? When had she arrived?
An exquisite redhead, the woman had been in the Caribbean with her brother and father for the past three years. At one time, Ivonne had thought Allen enamored of the beauty.
“Really, girls.” Miss Kingsley emphasized the word, indicating what she thought of them and staring pointedly at Miss Rossington. “I’m certain if Lord and Lady Wimpleton wanted their guests to know Miss Wimpleton’s joyous news, they’d make an announcement this evening.”
No condemnation in her gaze, she flashed Ivonne a brilliant smile. “Sometimes, people prefer to keep the arrangements to themselves for a time. A promise to marry is, after all, a very special occurrence, and one to cherish, not toss about like a shuttlecock during a game.”
Miss Rossington’s face flamed, and she scowled at Miss Kingsley.
“Don’t you agree, Miss Rossington?” Miss Kingsley tilted her head, a secretive smile curving her lips.
Miss Rossington suddenly became fixated with her bracelet.
Ivonne couldn’t recall a time when the chit didn’t have some sort of sharp retort on the tip of her tongue.
Lydia Farnsworth emerged from behind the screen. “Miss Wimpleton, if you’ll permit me, you’ve a few leaves and rose petals in your hair.”
She pointed to Ivonne’s head. “Just there, below your crown.”
Ivonne braved a smile. No doubt they considered her a promiscuous tart now that she was supposedly betrothed. She couldn’t refute a word of it. She nodded and turned to face the mirror once more. “If you would be so kind.”
After giving Ivonne a reassuring smile and skimming her gaze over Miss Rossington, who glared daggers, Miss Kingsley took her turn behind the painted screen.
Through lowered lashes, Ivonne observed Miss Rossington in the mirror’s reflection. She sank gracefully into a chair before another mirror at the same table where Ivonne sat. The Dundercrofts huddled on either side like dumpy sentinels.
Two other tables and she must choose to sit at this one?
A smug smile stretched Miss Rossington’s lips, exposing her perfect teeth.
What, no feline incisors? No claws hidden inside her gloves or tail twitching beneath her skirt? No hissing or scratching? No gagging and choking on an enormous, hairball, more’s the pity?
“Mr. Faulkenhurst is in attendance this evening,” Miss Rossington fairly purred as she removed her gloves and sent a sideways glance toward the screen.
Ah, baring our claws now, are we?
Her cat eyes narrowed. “Newly arrived from India, I believe.”
“Oh, he’s a handsome one.” Miss Lyselle sighed, a dreamy expression on her chubby face.
“No, dear, he won’t do at all.” Miss Dundercroft admonished her younger sister with a stern stare. “Not only is he a penniless second son,” disgust pinched her mouth, “the man’s disfigured.”
How dare she?
Ivonne straightened her spine, prepared to give the haughty chit a proper set down. “He most certain—”
“They say,” Miss Rossington ran her fingers along her fan’s carved ivory guard, her sultry gaze affixed on Ivonne, “he lost his manhood to those barbarians.”
Chapter Seven
The Wimpletons’ mahogany longcase clock chimed the early morning hour of two. Legs stretched before him and his ankles crossed, Chance settled further into the leather wingback chair before the library’s blazing hearth. He took a long pull from the glass he held, welcoming the brandy’s heat sluicing to his gut.
In the silence of the slumbering household, he’d grown chilled.
The house proved drafty, and London’s temperatures were far cooler than those he’d become accustomed to in India. He’d forgotten how penetrating the damp could be. After asking a footman to light the logs arranged in the Rumford fireplace, Chance had spent the last hour staring into the soothing, hypnotic flames.
Yesterday, he’d gratefully accepted Allen’s invitation to stay with the Wimpletons until he became settled in England. Chance boasted no residence of his own in London, and although he could open his brother’s house in Mayfair, that seemed more bother than necessary. Especially since Chance didn’t know how long he’d be in Town. He had several business dealings to attend to before he trotted off to Suttoncliffe Hall and surprised his family.
He hadn’t written to inform them of his return or that he’d been injured. They had worries enough of their own. Thad, his brother, and Thad’s wife expected their first child any day, and Chance’s sister, Annabel, had her hands full with her scapegrace of a husband.
The rhythmic tick-tocking of the clock beckoned sleep, yet slumber eluded Chance as it often had these past months. When he drifted into a fitful rest, nightmares awakened him. Drenched in sweat, his heart pounding with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil, he’d stare into the darkness until the horrific visions faded into the shadows of his mind.
Concentrating on Ivy’s serene features, sweet smile, and the dimple in her right cheek banished the memories until sleep seduced him once more.
A greater concern this night was the damage Kirkpatrick’s jealousy and flapping tongue had caused. Not only had he stretched Chance’s suggestion that Ivy was promised to another into a full-fledged contracted betrothal, the blackguard had suggested the wedding would take place within a month or two.
As Chance came in from the terrace, he overheard the captain speaking to a small crowd
“Lord Wimpleton insists the announcement will be forthcoming any day,” Kirkpatrick said.
Lying cawker.
At Chance’s behest, Sethwick questioned the captain. “How is it you are privy to such intimate information?”
Kirkpatrick told Sethwick, in addition to several other guests, “Lord Wimpleton requested an audience with me the moment I reentered the ballroom.”
What drivel.
According to Captain Kirkpatrick, Lord Wimpleton apologized for his daughter’s fast behavior as well as leading the poor widower on.
“My daughter knows full well I negotiated a settlement with another gentleman long before either she or I made your acquaintance, Captain Kirkpatrick. Please accept my humblest apologies, and rest assured, if she were not already spoken for, I would be most happy to consider your offer.”
Blatant lies, according to Allen and his father.
Recalling the conversation, Chance scowled.
If Kirkpatrick couldn’t have Ivy, he was determined no one else should either. He’d backed Lord Wimpleton and her into a corner. Either they produce her intended or henceforth be labeled liars.
And the fault was Chance’s.
Intent on protecting her, he’d lost control for one brief moment.
God Almighty, he’d only made matters worse, bloody fool. Guilt and remorse gnawed at him. He examined every angle of the situation, trying to arrive at an amenable solution. If only he were unencumbered ... and wealthy.
He shut his eyes against the remorse. Ivy’s features immediately floated before him.
She had blossomed into a rare beauty. He’d known she would.
Her hair, the richest sable, had been as silky beneath his chin as he’d imagined. Her pearly skin, smoother than a rose petal, begged to be touched. Her thick-lashed eyes, stormy-sky gray one minute and sage green with silvery flecks the next, reflected the peace of the deepest forest. And her lips, full and luscious, would have tempted Adam in the Garden of Eden.
Not the typical
haut ton measure of loveliness, no, his Ivy was something far more exceptional. An unpretentious dove amongst strutting peacocks and brazen parrots.
Opening his eyes, Chance twisted his mouth into a smirk. Drink had him waxing poetic.
He swirled the glass of cognac. The fire’s glow lightened the brandy’s umber hue to mellow amber. He’d indulged more than he ought, but he’d changed his mind about taking a dose of laudanum.
While abroad, he’d seen too many opium addicts and detested using the tincture. A dram or two of strong spirits proved a better choice to induce sleep. His lips curled into a self-deprecatory smile. The three prior glasses of brandy he’d imbibed could hardly be considered medicinal.
He uncrossed his ankles and laid his head against the chair’s high back, watching the fire’s shadows dance and stretch across the ceiling.
The boring-as-stale-bread novel he’d attempted to read earlier lay unopened on the table beside him. Chance drummed his fingers on the chair’s arm. He ached to play the piano in the drawing room. A consummate pianist in his youth, these past six years there’d been few opportunities to indulge in the pleasurable pastime.
Despite his father’s adamant disapproval of Chance’s womanish obsession, his mother had encouraged his playing. Then Mother died, and Father began pressuring him to find a suitable wife.
One with a nice, fat purse.
He didn’t want to wed any woman except Ivy. Right before he’d left for India, he’d approached Lord Wimpleton and asked for her hand.
The man had laughed, though not unkindly. “My daughter’s much too young for me to consider any talk of marriage. Return when she’s older and you have something besides a besotted heart to offer her. Then, I’ll consider your suit.”
Offer her? What?
A fortune.
How?
India.
More than a few nabobs had purchased a seat in Parliament and risen to the ton’s top tiers after acquiring a fortune via trade with India. Chance possessed no interest in Parliament or government, but he had hoped to become modestly prosperous. Enough that Lord Wimpleton would consider granting him his daughter’s hand in marriage.
Bride of Falcon Page 4
