The Copeland Bride

by Justine Cole

  "Why the hell can't this high-priced staff of yours learn to make coffee?"

  "Because they don't want to."

  Quinn set down his cup, abruptly putting an end to small talk. "Why did you send for me?"

  "To give you this." A sheaf of papers slid across the polished walnut top. "It's a contract negotiating your return to Copeland and Peale."

  Uninterestedly Quinn picked up the papers, barely glancing at the top page before he flipped the contract down on the desk. "Not interested."

  Simon was not particularly surprised by Quinn's refusal, but he continued to press. "Take some time. Look over the contract. If there's something you don't like, make a counter proposal. You'll never get an offer like this from anyone else."

  "I'll take my chances. Now, if that's all you wanted from me, I think I'll go back to bed." Quinn began to uncurl his lean frame from the chair.

  "Wait!" It was time for the second part of his plan.

  "What else, Simon?"

  "I want you to stay out of the house tonight."

  "Any particular reason?"

  "I have a dinner engagement. Strictly business, so Dorian is remaining at home. I think it will be best for everyone if you spend the evening with your baroness. From what I understand, it shouldn't be much of a sacrifice."

  "Why are you so anxious to get rid of me, Simon?"

  Simon's pipe had gone out. As he relit it the smell of fine Virginia tobacco permeated the room. "Dorian has taken a strong disliking to you. I don't like to see her unhappy."

  "She certainly has you by the leading strings, hasn't she?" Quinn drawled. "You're making a fool of yourself, Simon."

  "Why don't you be honest," Simon said, cupping the warm pipe bowl in his hand. "You're fascinated with Dorian. A little hard on the pride, isn't it, when a beautiful young woman chooses the father over the son."

  "Why are you baiting me?"

  "Because I want you to face facts. Everything in this world can't be as you want it to be, and every woman in this world isn't yours for the taking."

  Quinn's voice was heavy with sarcasm as he rose to leave. "I'll store that away with all your other fatherly advice."

  When the door closed, Simon smiled to himself. He felt quite certain that Miss Dorian Pope would not be dining alone that evening.

  It was already dusk when Noelle eased herself through the window and back into her bedroom. She hurried to make certain her door was still locked and then went to the nightstand and lit the lamp, casting cozy shadows about the room. Unfastening her dark cloak and shawl, she uttered a small sigh of relief. With each venture into Soho, she was challenging her luck, and she knew it. But this afternoon's trip had been worth the risk ten times over.

  With trembling fingers, she pulled out a crisp piece of folded stationery from the pocket of her emerald dress and once again treated her eyes to the message that had been waiting for her at Bardy's:Highness,

  The matter of which we spoke is progressing smoothly. I will be leaving for America soon and will contact you before I go regarding final arrangements.

  Q.C.C.

  Noelle laughed, mercurial quicksilver shimmering in the empty room. Finally she was going to be free, the fetters of the marriage that shackled her, broken. A vast ocean would separate her from the man to whom she was now so dangerously bound. She stripped off her pickpocket's disguise and pushed it to the bottom of her armoire; then, standing in her camisole, she reluctantly tore the note into three even strips and tossed ihem in the fire. The flames licked at the pieces and then devoured them.

  Seating herself in front of her mirror, she shook out her hair and giggled at the reflection that laughed back at her. Dirt, kohl, and rouge covered every part of her skin. She dabbed at the mess with a thick lotion smelling of heliotrope and then went to the washstand and scrubbed her face. Only when all traces of Highness had disappeared did she ring for Alice to bring her bath.

  As she waited she thought about Simon, and her pleasure was tempered with caution. Despite his claims to the contrary, she was convinced that he had made no effort to help her end her marriage. Common sense told her to keep her news hidden from him until she had the final papers in her hand. Then, when Quinn was well on his way to America, she would tell Simon of her clandestine trips into Soho, her meeting with his son, and the termination of the marriage. Of one thing she was certain: Simon was going to be less than pleased with the news.

  She bathed quickly, slipped into her undergarments, and asked Alice to pull out her new gown of shamrock green. It was more formal than the dresses she usually wore when she and Simon dined alone, but she felt like celebrating, and the gown was especially flattering, its vivid color making her eyes even more lustrous.

  Alice brushed her hair until it shone and then, impulsively, Noelle caught it in a snood of fine gold mesh in the style of the Middle Ages. The Gothic illusion was completed when Alice settled the gown over Noelle's head. With a deep V plunging at the neckline and an unusual fullness in the fabric at the front, she was hauntingly medieval.

  There was a knock at the door, and Alice returned with the disappointing news that Simon would be unable to dine at home tonight. Sighing over her wasted efforts, Noelle slipped out of her bedroom.

  Quinn looked up as she rounded the curve of the stairway. She had not yet caught sight of him, and he watched with admiration as she moved gracefully down the steps.

  She was a beautiful enigma. For someone who lived off the pleasures of the flesh, she seemed strangely innocent, even chaste. Somehow he could not imagine her lying in Simon's arms, yet it was not at all difficult to imagine her in his own. He remembered the stormy night when he had found her in his bedroom—how she had trembled under his embrace; his sense of the sweetness of her kiss, and its inexperience.

  She saw him just as she stepped down onto the marble floor. The guarded look she always assumed when he was near settled over her.

  "What are you doing here?" Her eyes flickered over his impeccable evening attire.

  "Waiting to escort you to the dinner table."

  "Dinner? You don't take your meals with us."

  "Not a very polite house guest, am I? Let me see if I can make up for it." His smile was relaxed, free of mockery, as he offered her his arm.

  She hesitated; then, not wishing to appear ridiculous, slipped her small hand into the crook of his elbow. Her body stiffened as they entered the dining room, and she saw the two places set, one at the head of the table where Simon customarily sat and the other, her place, at his right.

  "Afraid to have dinner alone with me?" He dropped down into Simon's chair.

  "Of course I'm not," she snapped. "Why should I be afraid?"

  "You tell me."

  "Really, I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Then sit down," he said mildly.

  There was no way she could refuse without making herself look foolish. With studied nonchalance, she took her place next to him. Quinn picked up the bottle of light Portuguese rosé and filled first her glass and then his own.

  "Truce?" he questioned as he lifted his long-stemmed goblet.

  There was a disarming boyish charm about him that Noelle had never seen, and she found herself nodding in response and picking up her own glass.

  "Here's to the mysterious and beautiful Dorian Pope." He brushed his glass against hers and then took a slow sip.

  Discomfited, Noelle lowered her eyes.

  "Is it true that you can't ride a horse?"

  She shrugged. "I never had the opportunity to learn." Not giving him the chance to question her further, she turned the conversation away from herself. "Tell me about your mount. I've never seen such a horse."

  "Magnificent, isn't he? He was bred on a farm not far from Cape Crosse. I bought him when he was a colt."

  A maid appeared with a steaming tureen of shrimp chowder that she ladled into small bowls and set before them.

  Noelle dipped her spoon into the thick soup. "I thought sailors were n
otoriously poor horsemen. That doesn't seem to be true in your case."

  "Is that actually a compliment, cousin?"

  At Quinn's teasing tone, Noelle opened her mouth to give him a scathing set-down, but he lifted his hand, palm outstretched. "Pull back your claws. I apologize."

  His grin was so engaging that, against her will, Noelle smiled back.

  "I build ships; I don't sail them. The pleasure for me is in the creation—conceiving the idea, making what I build not only seaworthy but fast and sleek. I give birth to a ship, then, when it's launched, let it go so I can create another one." Abruptly self-conscious, Quinn stopped and fingered the stem of his wineglass.

  His self-consciousness triggered her own, and she lowered her gaze. Her eyes caught on his bronzed hands. They were large and work-roughened, so unlike the pampered white hands of the London dandies. The tips of his square fingers bore scars where tools had come too close or moved too fast. These were the hands of a man who labored, and they were as hard and unyielding as the materials he used to build his ships.

  The maid replaced their soup with tender fillets of turbot. As Noelle raised her fork she realized, uncomfortably, what an act of intimacy it was to eat with another person. The feeling was reinforced as one course followed another: a lobster salad, truffled potatoes, quenelles of pheasant. Their lips opened to receive the food and sip the wine; a knife slipped into a soft morsel and then withdrew; fingers rubbed the stout handles of the silver. The room was mellow with candlelight and their healthy young appetites. A curious languor was stealing over her.

  Quinn motioned for the plates to be removed. Silently they watched as the table was cleared and an artfully arranged platter of hothouse fruit was placed between them. Tomkins brought in three decanters on a silver tray: one each of claret, port, and sherry. He positioned them to Quinn's left.

  "Anything else, sir?"

  "Nothing, Tomkins. We won't need you again."

  "Very well, sir." The butler nodded to the maid, and they both left the room, pulling the door firmly shut behind them.

  "Sherry?"

  "Please."

  The amber liquid was delicious on her tongue, and she savored it for a moment before she swallowed.

  Whether it was the evening itself or her unconscious sensuality as she held the wine in her mouth, Quinn could not say, but he felt himself hardening with desire as he watched her. His eyes slipped down to the deep V of her bodice, tantalizingly revealing the swells of her breasts.

  Their eyes locked dangerously, and then Noelle came to her senses.

  "It's—it's time I retired."

  "Running away again?" he asked softly.

  "No, of course not. I—I'm just tired. Excuse me."

  She willed herself to walk slowly to the door, across the marble foyer, up one step, up the next . . .

  "Cousin?"

  She spun around to see him leaning against the dining room door frame.

  "Sleep well."

  Despite the evening's chill, her body was burning when she reached her room. Without bothering to light the lamp, she threw off her garments and then, standing naked, freed her hair from the golden snood. The moonlight streamed in through the windows, touching her hair with silver.

  She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her body had changed so much. Fuller, more shapely. It was a woman's body, the flesh soft and supple to the touch. Her eyes held onto the reflection, and she moved closer, stopping in front of the mirror. She was conscious of the sensuous brush of her hair across her naked skin and tilted her head to the side, watching a lock fall forward and curl over the top of her breast.

  Thoughtfully she lifted her hands and brushed the palms gently back and forth across the coral tips. The sensation sent small, pleasant ripples through her as she stood, dreamily, her eyes closed, her mouth parted slightly. The heat she had felt all evening rose further within her. There was a tightness between her legs—a tingling, a craving for something . . . A face swept across the back of her closed lids—bold and strong with eyes of shimmering black onyx.

  She jerked her hands away from her breasts, as though the tender nipples were burning coals searing the flesh of her palms. Her stomach lurched sickeningly at her wantonness. Hastily «he yanked a heavy flannel gown over her head and then, ashamed, buried herself in the covers of her small bed.

  For the next few days Noelle managed to avoid Quinn. She attended a concert with Simon, had tea with Constance, and turned down a proposal of marriage from a wealthy young viscount with a receding chin and a disagreeable habit of sucking noisily on his front teeth. When Simon came down with a head cold and took to his room, Noelle grabbed the opportunity to make a trip into Soho.

  Once again she was unable to make it back before dark, even though she had run most of the way. But this was the last time she would tease fate, she thought with satisfaction. Her dangerous pilgrimages were over.

  Leaning against the trunk of the oak at the back corner of the house, she tried to catch her breath before she attempted the climb up to her bedroom window. While she rested she reviewed the simple plan she had conceived to send money to the children without returning to Soho herself.

  Under a blanket of ivy just on the other side of the garden wall, she had discovered an old stone urn with a broken base. It lay on its side, its recess deep, dark, and private—a perfect hiding place. Once a week Noelle planned to put whatever money she could spare into the urn. She had instructed Bardy to send one of the children to fetch it under cover of night. She had also charged him to have her papers delivered to the urn as soon as he received them. Noelle smiled at the thought of her precious papers, knowing she would be unable to keep herself from checking the urn each evening, even though it was really too early to expect them.

  As her breath came easier she moved through the clump of oaks toward her makeshift vine ladder. A twig snapped. Instinctively she pressed her spine flat against the nearest tree and waited, all her street-wise senses alert, cautioning her that she was not alone in the night garden.

  She thought quickly. Her head was covered with a shawl, and the dark cloak hid her emerald dress. It was probably only a servant out for air; the odds were in her favor that she had not been seen.

  Suddenly the garden came alive with the crash of footsteps and a rush of motion. From nowhere, a dark form flew through the air and slammed against her with such force that she was thrown from her feet and sent sprawling, facedown, on the ground.

  The impact knocked the breath from her body, and for a moment, her mind refused to function. Finally, with her forearm, she managed to push her chest a few inches off the ground and roll painfully to her side.

  Quinn stood over her,

  "What the hell are you doing here?" he raged, his eyes afire.

  "Comin' ter see ya," Noelle managed, quickly determining that her only hope was to brazen it out with him. "Fine thing it is, knockin' a body off 'er feet." Painfully she pulled herself up, thankful for the inky shadows that concealed her face. Then, as an afterthought, she added, "And me, with a bun in the oven."

  Quinn was immediately concerned and started toward her. "Sorry, Highness, but I thought you were a prowler."

  "Don't come no closer." Noelle held up her hands to keep him at bay. "The babe's not 'urt, and I don't fancy another brush with yer. Like ta kill me, yer did with yer scurvy trick."

  Quinn suppressed a smile. She was a feisty thing, ready to take on the world.

  "All right, Highness. Now, tell me why you've come."

  "Musta been balmy in me 'ead for even thinkin' of it," she improvised. "Don't yer be suspectin' I 'ad a drop in, neither. Been stayin' away from the gin, just like yer axed me. But Geòrgie, 'e read yer note ter me, and I made up me mind it would only be proper ter thank ya." She sniffed disdainfully. "If I'd a knowed wot was waitin' fer me, I'd a spared meself the trouble."

  "How did you know where to find me?"

  "I remembered the 'ouse from afore, when yer brung me 'ere."
<
br />   Quinn did not bother to hide his suspicion. "That was almost two years ago, Highness."

  "I got a good memory, I do." She stuck her small chin in the air in a gesture that was curiously familiar to Quinn although he could not place it.

  "I weren't plannin' ter come ter the front door, yer know. I ain't stupid. I was just gonna wait round till yer come out. Anyways, thank yer fer 'elpin' me, and I'll be goin' now."

  She turned from him and began walking toward the back gate, expecting at any moment to feel his powerful hand on her arm, spinning her around to face him. When she reached the alley, she could hardly believe her luck. He had accepted her story! She picked up her skirts and began to run, not stopping until she was far from Northridge Square.

  For some time Quinn stood in the garden, smoking one cheroot, and then another. Like Noelle, he was a creature of instinct. And now his instincts were telling him that something was drastically wrong. If he could only put his finger on what it was . . .

  Chilled to the bone, Noelle huddled in the back alleys of Mayfair for over an hour. Only then did she permit herself to slip back into the garden and climb the vine to the welcome asylum of her bedroom.

  Chapter Twenty

  The plump breasts of Mrs. Debs, Simon's housekeeper, jiggled like warm puddings as she bustled through the upstairs hallway, making certain the house was being cleaned to her satisfaction. Every spring and every fall, without fail, her vendetta against dirt reached heroic proportions. She ordered carpets taken up, windows washed, drawers straightened, and cupboards cleared. The house was waxed and polished till it shone. No cobweb was safe, no dust mote protected from her keen eye.