“Spare me your feeble excuses.” He laughed, a cynical bark of amusement. “I’m well aware of how females react to my wounds, and your expression says much.”
His hostile gaze cut a wide swath across her vulnerable heart and sliced it open, leaving a gaping wound. Hands lifted palm upward in entreaty, she moved toward him.
He took a single step backward. Detached regard replaced the heated glimmer his eyes had held moments before.
The look froze her in place.
He despises me.
The knife twisted deeper into her bleeding heart.
Somehow, she must make him understand. “My tears are for what you’ve lost, Falcon, for what you’ll never have.”
He gathered his coat and then draped it across his unmarred arm.
“Or,” with bored nonchalance, he yawned behind his misshapen hand, “do you weep for what you’ll never have?”
She jerked her head as if he’d slapped her.
“You’ve proved yourself wholly disappointing.” After sketching a mocking bow, Falcon presented his back and strode from the room.
Ivonne stared at the vacant doorway. The pre-dawn chill roused her from her stupor as the library clock tolled the hour of three. She blinked several times in an attempt to gather her scattered wits. The agony of her shattered heart hurt far worse than the breaks in her legs ever had. Shivering, she hugged her shoulders.
Had Falcon kissed her to determine if she would measure up? And found her wanting?
Ivonne furrowed her brow. No, he wouldn’t do that. Would he?
She cast a glance toward the room’s entrance.
Perhaps the old Falcon wouldn’t have, but this new one ...?
Ivonne didn’t know what him capable of anymore. She took a shaky breath, fearing he had toyed with her. The notion sickened her. He’d become callous. His words, though softly spoken, lanced deeper than a short sword. She’d been ten times a fool to harbor any hope he regarded her with anything more than ... what?
Not brotherly affection, for certain. Their kiss proved that beyond measure. Inexperienced she might be, but he’d been every bit as engaged as she.
Or perhaps not.
Retying the sash at her waist, she curled her toes against the numbing cold permeating her feet and rising to her calves.
Rogues faked ardor and affection.
Mother had warned her of that very thing when, motivated by lust for her sizable settlement, particularly unsavory gentlemen had begun to pay Ivonne uncommon attention. Her heart rebelled at likening Falcon to that lot, yet he had refused to even listen to her explanation.
He called me wholly disappointing.
One at a time, Ivonne blew out Falcon’s candelabrum’s tapers. In the increasing gloom, doubt niggled. Had his wounds and the savagery of warfare made him angry and bitter? It appeared he’d changed much.
What was the exact nature of the damage to his male parts? She wasn’t supposed to know of such things, but as she matured, ladies became less cautious about what they whispered in her presence. She’d had quite an education these past two Seasons about men’s Man Thomas’s and whirligigs.
Nonetheless, she could claim more ignorance than knowledge.
Did men feel desire and have urges if that region was impaired? There wasn’t anyone she could ask. Mother would faint dead away, and Dawson, Ivonne’s aged abigail, would expire from apoplexy. To ask Father or Allen was unthinkable.
I say, Allen, Father, would you please explain to me precisely what losing one’s manhood entails? Don’t concern yourself with my delicate sensibilities. I assure you, I want to know every last detail.
She almost giggled, imagining their appalled reactions.
Perhaps Falcon had only lost the ability to father children. Was he intact?
Did it matter?
Her gaze drifted to the piano bench, where moments before she’d experienced her greatest joy.
No, it didn’t matter. Not to her.
Yes, she desired children, desperately. However, she wanted Falcon more. Besides, she’d already determined before he returned that spinsterhood was her fate. There’d be no brood of chubby-cheeked toddlers hanging on her skirts.
Ivonne smiled sadly and retrieved her candleholder.
She loved Falcon—deeply, gut-wrenchingly, beyond everything loved him. Loved him enough that she would marry him despite his disfigurement.
If he’d have her. Though truthfully, she stood a greater chance of weeping tears of gold.
A lifetime without him would be far bleaker than one deprived of children. Besides, waifs and orphans aplenty wandered London’s streets, desperate for a good home.
She released a hefty sigh. It mattered not.
Such imaginations were the stuff of nonsensical fairy-tales. She inhaled a tremulous breath. Hadn’t his reaction, his harsh words, proved his position?
He found her lacking.
Tears coursed down her cheeks. Ivonne made no attempt to wipe her face as she plodded toward her bedchamber.
This time, she did weep for what she would never have.
Her tears were short-lived, however. Before she reached the top riser of the curved stairway, her sorrow transformed to ire. Fury like none she had ever known burgeoned within her.
Enough of men acting like I am beneath their touch.
Falcon wasn’t that different from Captain Kirkpatrick and the other gentlemen in that regard. He ... they believed her drab, undesirable, disappointing.
Well, this dowdy mouse was about to make a bold transformation.
Newfound determination in her step, Ivonne marched to her chamber. No more being made sport of and pitied for her ordinary appearance. She was about to set London on its ear.
“Just you wait, gentlemen.”
Bride of Falcon: Chapter Ten
“Miss Ivonne, wake up.” Dawson prodded Ivonne’s shoulder with a bony finger.
Ivonne groaned and forced her eyelids open. She raised a hand to her forehead and blinked away the grittiness in her eyes from too much crying and not enough sleep. Memories of last night and Falcon descended, the burden of their dual yoke weighing heavily upon her.
Seizing the jonquil velvet bed curtains, the maid swept them to either bedpost. “His lordship and her ladyship wish you to meet them in the study.”
Plucking at the embroidered counterpane topping her bed, Ivonne sighed. She longed to crawl beneath the silk coverlet and ignore her parents’ summons. She could claim to be indisposed. Truth to tell, she did feel rather awful. ... Until she remembered the plan she concocted last night. She barely refrained from an unladylike snicker and rubbing her hands together in glee.
Moments later, Dawson threw open the heavy draperies. Sunlight blazed into the chamber, revealing a breakfast tray atop a dainty table situated before the balcony. A chemise, stockings, and a mint green morning dress trimmed in ecru lace lay draped across a rosewood fainting couch.
“I let you sleep as long as I could.” Dawson grinned, revealing her slightly crooked front teeth. “You didn’t stir a jot, even when I cleaned the grate.”
Ivonne yawned and sat up. She attempted to smooth her tangled hair. She ought to have plaited the mane before retiring. “I couldn’t sleep last night. The hour was after five when I finally dozed off.”
She gestured in the direction of the tray and gown. “I see you’ve been busy this morning.”
“Morning?” Dawson chuckled, deep wrinkles etching her face. She pointed to the boudoir clock. “Not for an hour.”
“It’s after one?” Ivonne stared in disbelief. She leaped from the bed, and then winced, laying a hand to her head. Pain thrummed behind her eyes. “I never sleep this late. What time am I to meet my parents?”
“Two o’clock. Sharp.” Dawson tucked a stray grayish-blonde strand of hair into her cap. “The master’s exact words.”
After a hasty washing and slightly less swift toilette, Ivonne gulped down two bites of toast and a swallow of tepid tea. She shot
the clock a hurried glance. Three minutes to make the study. Though normally good-natured, Father didn’t abide tardiness.
So much for putting the scheme she’d hatched into action today, dash it all. With a little wave to Dawson, Ivonne hustled from her bedchamber. On second thought, this was better. It gave her more time to plot.
The first item on the agenda?
A secret meeting with her notorious second cousin, Emilia Leighton. A well-known demirep, Emmy seemed the perfect person to help Ivonne accomplish the task she’d set herself: transforming into an alluring creature no man could resist, least of all a golden-haired Greek god.
Not that I would have him after last night.
A wave of trepidation swept Ivonne. God help her if caught with Emmy. Turning a corner, Ivonne lifted her skirt and picked up her pace. Emmy wasn’t received by anyone in the family these days. Although if the on dit could be believed, she was most popular with the demimonde and gaming hell set.
Ivonne had frequently heard Emmy’s name whispered at elite gatherings. Usually spiteful remarks made behind fans by matrons long past their prime or on-the-shelf ladies, their voices shrill with envy.
Breathless from rushing down two corridors and the flight of stairs, Ivonne paused outside Father’s study. The black walnut door stood closed.
People murmured within, their voices a muted drone through the thick wood.
Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her skirt and squared her shoulders. With newfound resolve, she rapped twice. The carved door swung open before she lowered her hand. The study smelled of leather, tobacco, and Father’s cologne. She breathed in the familiar, comforting essence.
“Hullo, Sleeping Beauty. I’ve never known you to slumber this late.” Allen grinned and leaned down to peck her cheek. Stepping back, he examined her. “I must say, the rest did you good. You look exquisite today, sister.”
Pleased as Punch by the compliment, Ivonne placed her hand on his arm.
From his contrived messy hairstyle to his pristine knotted cravat and gleaming Hessians, Allen epitomized current fashion. Even the tobacco brown jacket he wore matched his hair to perfection and deepened his eyes to malachite. The next Viscount Wimpleton could claim exceptional looks, as could Mother and Father.
Ivonne, alone, possessed a sparrow’s drab plumage.
She smiled inwardly. Not for long although she’d held no aspirations of ever nearing Mother’s beauty. Raven haired and possessing the same unusual green eyes as Allen, Mother—at five and forty—outshone most women half her age. Today, the soft coral and peach gown complemented her flawless skin’s youthful glow.
Father cut quite a handsome figure as well. Tall and slender, he boasted a full head of chestnut hair sprinkled with gray at the sideburns. At two and fifty, his striking, almost foreign features garnered much attention from moon-eyed females. He claimed a notorious sheik lurked in the family tree several generations back.
Now that would be a tale worth hearing.
After closing the heavy door, Allen guided Ivonne further into the room. “What, were you prowling about last night instead of sleeping? Or did sweet dreams of handsome beaus keep you abed?”
Her heart lurched for a panicked instant, and she searched his humor-filled eyes. He couldn’t possibly know about her pre-dawn encounter with Falcon.
Allen winked.
She smiled as much in relief as at his teasing banter. No, he didn’t know.
“I assumed you’d be hard-pressed to sleep, too, brother dearest.” She grinned and whispered, “I saw the charming Miss Kingsley last night.”
A guarded expression entered Allen’s eyes, although his smile didn’t falter. “As did I, minx. I shall see her today too.”
Ivonne’s smile widened. “Now that is welcome news.”
Miss Rossington was out of the picture, thank God.
“Come along, you two.” Father pocketed his watch. “Allen and I have a four o’clock appointment at White’s. One I’m not looking forward to, I might add.”
Ivonne considered him. He appeared a trifle tense, and his attention repeatedly fell to the papers scattered atop his desk. Most irregular. Father typically kept his desk neat and tidy.
Mother, seated on a cherry-red damask sofa, smiled and held out her arms. “Darling, that gown does remarkable things to your skin, and your eyes are a spectacular shade of green today.”
Ivonne breathed an iota easier.
She’d been afraid her mother would detect traces of last night’s waterworks. Cosmetics hid the evidence quite nicely, and Ivonne also credited them for the improvement in her appearance. The transformation the light touch of rice power and lip rouge achieved proved remarkable, the boost in her self-assurance, nothing short of astonishing.
Mother twisted to catch Father’s attention. “Don’t you agree, Walter?”
Father glanced to his wife then squinted at Ivonne.
“Yes, you’re quite right, my dear.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ivonne, you do look exceptionally lovely this afternoon.”
She couldn’t contain her wide grin.
Precisely what she’d hoped for. Emmy could advise her on what others artifices Ivonne should purchase. She quite liked feeling attractive. She intended to utilize the cosmetics, and anything else her cousin recommended, on a daily basis.
She launched a silent prayer heavenward.
Let the gentlemen find my appearance pleasing as well.
Particularly one gentleman she sought to make jealous.
Now, if only she could learn to flirt.
After embracing her mother, Ivonne took a seat on the sofa.
Allen lounged against the desk, his countenance gone somber. He toed the edge of the Oriental carpet, seemingly distracted.
Ivonne met everyone’s gazes in turn. Shifting on the settee, she faced her mother. “You wished to see me?”
“Dear, an upset occurred last night.” Mother gave her a brittle smile.
Drat, drat, drat.
Ivonne dug her fingernails into the sofa’s piping.
Here we go.
What had Captain Kirkpatrick said? She itched to box his ears, the smelly tattlemonger.
Mother paused and looked to Father. A pinched expression wrinkled her forehead.
He inclined his head.
“To do with Luxmoore’s father,” Mother said.
Ivonne relaxed her grip. This wasn’t about the captain. Or the events in the arbor or on the terrace. “Nothing serious, I pray. Is everything well today?”
“No, no, not at all, I’m afraid.” Father sighed and tapped his pipe. He fingered the bowl. “His father died ... er ... unexpectedly last night. Poor Luxmoore learned of the tragedy while at our ball.”
“That’s awful.” Ivonne’s eyes welled with tears. Lord Luxmoore had always been unfailingly kind to her, and he had a delightful sense of humor.
Allen straightened and rubbed his forehead. “I’ve given my word we’ll not discuss the misfortune with anyone outside of this house except Faulkenhurst.”
Falcon? Where was he today, anyway? Had he departed for Suttoncliffe already? A surge of hurt seized her. She shrugged inwardly. So much the better for her plan to succeed. What he did was of no importance to her.
Liar.
Ivonne’s stomach growled and then rumbled again, much louder. She pressed a hand to her complaining middle. Except for those bites of cold toast in her room earlier, she’d eaten nothing since snaring two Shrewsbury biscuits from the kitchen yesterday afternoon.
“I shall certainly keep Luxmoore’s confidence.” She rose partway. “If that’s all, I am rather famished.”
Cook usually had a tasty treat or two, fresh from the oven. Ivonne could almost taste the warm seedcake, or maybe there’d be fresh maid of honor tarts.
Father raised his hand. “No, my dear, that’s not all.”
“Oh.” Ivonne dropped fully onto the sofa once more. What else was there? She searched her parents’ faces before
settling on Allen’s.
His focus remained riveted on the carpet as he tormented the fringed edge with his boot.
“There’s something else?” She reluctantly forced the question past her lips.
An uncomfortable, pregnant pause followed. Her family looked at each other before their troubled gazes settled on her.
Dash it all.
So much for avoiding the Captain Kirkpatrick bumblebroth. Best to get it done with.
Ivonne stared at her hands clenched atop her lap. Her fingertips gleamed white.
“I’m sorry I ventured onto the terrace alone.” She scanned their strained faces again. “I wouldn’t have had I known Captain Kirkpatrick had arrived. He wasn’t invited, and I didn’t expect him to be so brazen as to come with—”
Father shushed her with a casual wave of his hand. “That wasn’t wise of you, but that’s not the issue we need to address.”
“Walter, must we? There’s no other recourse? You’re sure?” Mother’s eyes glimmered with tears, and her chin quivered.
Alarm seared Ivonne.
Mother didn’t cry in front of others.
Ivonne threw Allen a desperate look.
He stared at the floor, his mouth pressed into a grim ribbon.
Whatever was wrong?
Giving one curt nod, Father set down his pipe. “Ivonne, everyone at the ball last night—and by now, half of London—believes you are newly betrothed.”
“Is that what this is about?” She released a relieved laugh. “Well, I’m not. We’ll just have to refute that ludicrous chitchat.”
Chuckling, she flattened her palms on her knees, easing the stiffness from her numb fingers. “Le bon ton does love to make a hullabaloo out of nothing.”
“It’s not as simple as that, Ivy.” Allen crouched before her. He took her hands in his, giving them a squeeze. “You see, not only did Captain Kirkpatrick fuel that preposterous rumor, word of your good news reached Prinny.”
Her breath left her in a rush, and Ivonne gaped at her brother. “Prinny? The Prince Regent?”
Who else, goosecap?
She swallowed, not liking the direction this conversation headed. “What has he to do with this farce?”
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 27
