by Justine Cole
"He's not with them. Nor with any shipbuilder in America as far as I can determine."
"Simon, what about all of the men he was corresponding with about his hull experiments?"
"I've contacted them, but no one has heard anything." Simon's voice had a final ring to it, as if he were dismissing the subject.
"Did you think to go through his files? Perhaps there are some names you're not aware of."
"I tell you, no one has heard from him. I've been through his files a dozen times, all his notebooks, his letters. No one admits to any knowledge of his whereabouts."
There was a brief silence in the room. As Constance studied Simon's troubled face comprehension began to grow inside her. She made her question casual, as though she were merely offering polite conversation.
"What did you think of Quinn's work?"
"It's inconclusive." Simon was abrupt.
"I believe Quinn said as much himself." Her rebuke was softened by the sympathetic expression on her face.
Simon sighed resignedly. "All right, Connie. I deserve that. His work is good."
"I see."
"No, it's more than good, and I was too hasty in dismissing it."
"You did what you believed was best, Simon."
He slapped his hand vexatiously against the top of his thigh. "It's his damned arrogance. Brings out the worst in me. I thought he was off on a wild goose chase when he should have been attending to business."
Seeing how troubled he was, Constance shifted the conversation to the fire at Cape Crosse that had precipitated Simon's sudden journey last spring. In his correspondence, he had indicated that a warehouse had been destroyed in the blaze, and that Luke Baker, the man they suspected was responsible, had disappeared without a trace. Now he told Constance of the rebuilding of the warehouse and a dock that had been slightly damaged. They talked of the work in progress at Cape Crosse and a merchant ship launched shortly before he left for England.
But Simon found himself curiously distracted, his mind more occupied with Constance herself than with their conversation. Damn! She had always had an unsettling effect on him. She was so delicate and giddy, such a contrast to the earthy creatures he sought out for his pleasure. Those were the women he was comfortable with, not one who looked as though she would break under a man's weight.
He was lying to himself! He seemed to make a practice of deceiving himself about her. For some reason he wanted to believe that she was cold and unimaginative in bed, but he knew it wasn't true. He had known it for years.
Benjamin Peale had always been a lusty man. In the early days of their friendship, long before his marriage to Constance, he had taken the young Simon under his more experienced wing. Together they had sampled most of the better brothels on the eastern seaboard and also a fair share of the more respectable women, married and unmarried. But after he had wed, Benjamin's philandering abruptly stopped, never to be repeated as far as Simon knew. Yet he always had the unmistakable mark of a man well satisfied.
Something of what he was thinking must have shown itself, for Constance paled, then stopped speaking abruptly, her lips moist and slightly parted. The unconscious sensuality of her face stirred an ember deep inside Simon.
Why had he never noticed the distinct shade of green her eyes were? Like polished jade. And the tiny lines at the corners. Instead of aging her face, they gave it a fascinating animation. She was so tiny and elegant, always perfectly coiffed and dressed. He suddenly wanted to see her rumpled; her auburn hair undone and her clothing in disarray.
He knew then that he wanted her; he had wanted her for years but had refused to admit it to himself out of loyalty to Benjamin Peale. He leaned toward her, and she jumped up as if stung.
"Let me get you some brandy."
As she walked unsteadily across the drawing room to a graceful Sheridan table where several crystal decanters were grouped, she could feel Simon's eyes burning into her neck. Fighting for control, she reached for the brandy, splashing several drops as she poured. Conscious that Simon had risen from his chair behind her, she picked up a decanter of sherry and poured a large glass for herself. Her heart raced wildly. She must not make a fool of herself again! Taking a deep breath, she turned toward him, a glass in each hand.
He was standing next to the fireplace, watching her, one elbow resting on the mantelpiece. Their eyes riveted. Glass extended, she walked toward him slowly, almost hypnotically, unable to drop her gaze from his.
He took his glass from her. Instead of sipping from it, he set it untasted on the mantel, then took her own glass and placed it next to his. Wordlessly, he drew her toward him, his hands strong and forceful as they curved around her bare shoulders. She was conscious of his face coming nearer and nearer, and then his lips claimed hers.
She moaned softly and gave herself to him. His mouth was hard and demanding, his kiss experienced. As her arms reached around his back she ached with the relief of finally being able to embrace him.
And then he was kissing her temples, the soft space at the base of her earlobe, her throat. His hair brushed against her lips, and she parted her mouth, tasting it with the tip of her tongue.
A faint chill touched her as his hands slipped one side of her dress down, exposing her small breast to the air. Tenderly he claimed the softness that had been so long starved for a man's touch, and her flesh was instantly warm and secure. Sensation rolled over her. He gently pushed her back until she rested on the carpet.
She was vaguely aware of the sound of the key turning in the lock as he protected them from a servant's intrusion, and then he was back beside her, freeing her from her dress. Her petticoats, her chemise—his experienced fingers had no difficulty finding the fastenings of her garments.
Soon he was lying naked beside her, tormenting her with his caresses. Finally, when she thought she could bear it no longer, he rolled on top of her, and she opened herself, surrendering unashamedly as he filled her.
Later, as he pulled on his clothing, Simon studied Constance's naked form lying asleep at his feet, her head resting on a small embroidered pillow he had pulled from the settee. He watched as her small breasts rose and fell rhythmically and found that his hands, as if they had a will of their own, yearned to reach out to her and once again stroke the soft contours of her flesh.
"Fool," he chided himself, clenching his fists until the skin stretched white at the knuckles.
In the years since his wife's death, Simon had enjoyed the favors of many women, but today had been different. This woman who had been a thorn in his side since she had first come into his life had filled a bleakly empty part of himself that he had never imagined could be replenished. And he had humiliated her. Taken her on the floor like a common whore.
A deep shame filled him. He had taken cruel advantage of her. She was a passionate woman; he had always sensed that. The unnatural celibacy that Benjamin's illness and death had forced upon her had obviously made her an easy victim of what she would only see as his lust. She would never forgive him for what he had done.
Memories of their lovemaking came back to him. She had been so warm, so receptive. God! How he had wanted her! Why had he not realized earlier what she had come to mean to him so he could have treated her with every respect as she deserved? Now it was too late.
Reluctantly he picked up one of her discarded petticoats and gently covered her. She stirred, murmuring something that was inaudible to him before her lashes opened and her green eyes locked searchingly with his. Simon looked away, unwilling to see the condemnation in her gaze.
His eyes fell on the jade silk dress. Gathering it up with the dainty underthings that lay near it, he wordlessly offered her the garments and then quietly left the room to allow her some privacy while she dressed.
A tear trickled down Constance's face as the door shut behind him. She began hastily donning the garments, trying to shut out the memory of Simon's dreadful silence after their lovemaking. She had repelled him with her wantonness, and she could o
nly blame herself for her lack of control.
Pain, no less real for not being physical, seemed to take possession of her body. If it had been any man other than her business partner, she would never have had to see him again, never had to endure the indignity of facing him.
But that was the point, wasn't it? It could never have been any other man.
She fled to her room.
Some time later, after he had washed and changed from his travel-stained garments into evening dress, Simon once again found himself in the drawing room. He walked to the fireplace and picked up the brandy that still waited for him in a crystal goblet on the mantel. He swirled the amber liquid in the glass, watching it coat the inside before sliding down to pool at the bottom. Constance's untouched glass of sherry condemned him from the mantel.
"Damn!" he exclaimed. Tilting his head back, he drained his glass in a single gulp.
There was a soft rustle, and he looked up to see a young woman of such incredible beauty standing in the doorway that his breath caught in his throat. He remembered Constance telling him that Noelle had gone on a picnic. This must be one of the young women of the party.
She wore a fashionable muslin dress printed with scattered sprigs of gay blue periwinkles. In her hand she trailed a straw bonnet by its bright sashes. But her garb, charming as it was, did not hold his attention, for never had he seen a face so exquisite. It could have been called patrician with its delicately carved bones and small nose had it not been for her incredible eyes, like finely polished topaz. They lent a piquance to the perfect features, an incredible sensuousness that was underscored by the shining tawny gold curls caught up on top of her head and feathering so gracefully in front of her dainty earlobes.
As Simon saw before him the embodiment of all he had wanted for his son, his already depressed spirits plummeted even lower. His plan had been absurd. He had expected too much.
She stood quietly, with the self-assurance of a woman who well knows the effect her beauty has on others and is no longer surprised by it.
Suddenly he realized he was gaping at her like an ill-bred lout. Recovering, he apologized. "Excuse me for staring. I hadn't expected to see anyone other than Mrs. Peale and . . ." He searched for the name Constance had told him Noelle was using. What the devil had . . . ? "And Miss Pope, of course."
He began to walk toward her, and then, when he was halfway across the room, she spoke.
"Hello, Mr. Copeland."
He froze in mid-stride, the color draining from his face. "Noelle?"
A hint of a smile played at the corners of her lips. "I'm Dorian Pope, now."
Never had Simon been so stunned. "I can't believe this," he stammered. "It's incredible! Why, you're . . ." Suddenly he threw back his head and roared with laughter. This was the little pickpocket Quinn had pulled from the gutter! The street urchin he had chosen to marry so he could humiliate his father!
He ran to her and enveloped her in a great bear hug. Then, forgetting in his jubilation all that had happened with Constance such a short time before, he set her aside for a moment and dashed from the room, flying to the bottom of the stairs. "Constance!" he bellowed. "Constance, come here. Hurry!"
He rushed back and caught his daughter-in-law to him again, showering her with questions that he gave her no time to answer. Finally he let her go and stood back to look at her. "I just can't believe the change."
"I hope I'm to take that as a compliment." Smiling, she walked toward the window and tossed her bonnet down on a chair. The sun chose that moment to glide out from behind a cloud and spill its rays through the glass panes, setting tiny golden fires in her curls.
Simon drank in the sight, still unable to believe his good fortune.
When Constance joined them in the drawing room, no trace of the upheaval that raged within her showed itself on her face. Propelled by the discipline of generations of finely bred English gentlewomen, she glided serenely over to Noelle and planted a light kiss on her cheek.
"Did you enjoy yourself, dear?"
"The food was better than the company, Constance. I'm beginning to believe Mrs. Finch is a sorceress."
"Of course she is. Now, run up to your room and change before dinner. There's a grass stain on your hem."
Noelle laughed. "I'm afraid I'm hopelessly rumpled. I don't think I shall ever learn to look as neat as you, Constance. If you'll both excuse me." She paused at the doorway to smile back at them and then disappeared.
As Simon turned toward Constance memory rushed painfully back to him. It was only with difficulty that he could meet her gaze. To his surprise he found no trace of condemnation in the cool green eyes. So, he mused, she is not going to hold what happened against me after all. All right. If she could be that forgiving, he would make certain that she had no cause to regret it. From now on, he would behave with only the utmost respect. Never again would she find cause to censure him.
"Constance, I don't know how I can ever thank you. She's perfect. Absolutely perfect."
"I'm glad you're pleased, Simon," she responded pleasantly. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must see Mrs. Finch about dinner."
Chapter Thirteen
As Noelle rode beside Simon in the open carriage, wind plucked at the wide brim of her bonnet and ruffled the curls that had escaped. Despite the fact that Constance had decided not to accompany them on their trip to Brighton today, Noelle was enjoying herself enormously. Much of her pleasure sprang from yesterday's triumph.
She looked over at Simon handsomely arrayed in a dark brown coat, lemon waistcoat, and brown-striped neckcloth. She could not remember when she had enjoyed herself as much as she had last night at dinner. Simon Copeland was far different from the young men whose presence she had been enduring. Without being fawning, he was attentive, self-assured, and charming. He had complimented both his dinner companions extravagantly and kept them entertained with anecdotes of his early years in Cape Crosse. Then, he and Constance had told Noelle stories of some of Copeland and Peale's most famous ships: the Episode, the Star of Wilmington, and Dream Dancer.
For the first time Noelle noticed a salty tang hanging in the late morning air. She shivered with excitement.
"Are you cold?" Simon asked.
"Not at all, Mr. Copeland."
"Please, Noelle, won't you call me Simon? Now that I've returned, I'm hoping we can have a close relationship. After all, we're both Copelands, and I must say that Noelle Copeland is certainly a credit to our name."
Some of Noelle's pleasure in the morning and in her companion dimmed. There was a smugness about his words, a possessiveness she did not like.
"Noelle Copeland?" She quirked an ironic eyebrow at him.
"Noelle Copeland does not exist, or, if she does, it's only on a piece of paper, not in the flesh."
"Of course, dear."" Simon patted the back of her hand and then turned his attention back to the horses.
His gesture 'of dismissal irritated Noelle, and she pressed, "Simon, I have not lost sight of who I really am, and I don't think you should, either. I'm Noelle Dorian, a London pickpocket who was given an incredible chance by two very generous people to be something more, something better. But remember that beneath these beautiful clothes and this clean face, there is still a London pickpocket."
"You're talking nonsense, Noelle, and you know it." Simon's voice was tight, "it is the pickpocket who doesn't exist. She never really did. You come from good stock, despite the squalor of your upbringing. No, my dear, this is the real Noelle sitting beside me now. The pickpocket was the deception."
Simon was spared Noelle's response as the carriage rounded a curve and the town of Brighton came into view. He drove down to the sea along Ship Street, parking the carriage under a shady tree and letting Noelle take in her first sight of the gray waves and sandy beach. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes away. The sea mesmerized her as she saw freedom of the highest order. When it was time for them to leave, Noelle requested a last view before they set back. Simon helped her do
wn from the carriage, and they strolled along the walk that overlooked the beach, Noelle's ruffled pink parasol protecting her complexion from the sun. Her perfection reminded him of a portrait by Gainsborough.
"You've become a very beautiful woman, Noelle."
A tiny frown gathered near her eyes. "So I've been told."
"You seem less than pleased. Is being beautiful such a horrible burden?"
Noelle was thoughtful. "It has been difficult to adjust to the change. Especially the effect I have on . . . others."
Simon did not miss the tiny hesitation. "Especially the effect you have on men?" His next question seemed casual. "And have any of these young men caught your fancy?"
Noelle's voice was quiet, almost contemptuous. "They are silly boys who have never done an honest day's work in their lives. All they know is riding, hunting, and cards. They are attracted to me only because of my appearance. They look for nothing more."
Simon's eyes as he gazed down upon her were oddly disturbing. "Then you should pity them, for that is their loss."
Noelle stopped and tilted back her parasol, its pink interior forming an enchanting halo behind her head. "I'm not like other women. Intrigues and romances hold no attraction for me."
"You have not met the right man."
"No, Simon. I think all those nights I spent listening to Daisy and those horrible men she brought home have made it impossible for me to feel the same emotions as other women. And, then, after what happened with your son . . ."
"Please, Noelle—" Simon put a hand on her arm.
"I can't pretend that it didn't happen," she insisted, determined to make him realize how serious she was. "Now, something must be done about it. This marriage must be ended. I can never find any peace until I am freed from it. You are an important man, Simon. You can get the best legal advice. Please help me."
