She stifled a panicked sob. Pressing her fists to her eyes, she refused to let the tears come. Crying, what a wretched waste of time and energy.
Think, Ivonne. There must be another alternative.
Did her parents understand the dismal selection available? Ivonne mentally catalogued her choices: two decrepit old scallywags who smelt of camphor and four fortune-seeking rakehells, each of whom possessed a title and likely carried the clap. And—she shuddered, sickened at the thought—wealthy, fetid Captain Kirkpatrick.
Never him. Not while the sun rises.
Arms folded, she sagged further into the bench’s carved back. Sorry lot, each and every one. The corpulent prince could starve himself before she ever agreed to marry any of them.
Several black ants maneuvered past her slipper carrying a dead bee.
She couldn’t believe her parents would force her to marry to satisfy the Regent’s whim. They’d more mettle than that.
Why acquiesce so easily? It wasn’t like them at all.
Shoulders hunched, she sighed. This wasn’t simply about her. The Sovereign, much like an intractable child, had a malicious streak when opposed. A chill swept her. She hadn’t a fool’s doubt he would destroy her family, if not financially then socially. They’d be ostracized. She fiddled with the lace along her gown’s neckline. Did Prinny have the power to strip Father of his viscountcy?
Egads. What would become of her family then?
A pair of beautiful grayish-blue eyes invaded her musings. If only Falcon were a beau, her decision would be oh-so-easy.
“I ought to propose to Falcon. Wouldn’t that set the prince and his cronies on their ears?” She scuffed her shoes on the leaf-littered ground. A black-capped coal tit chirped nearby, as if in agreement.
Ivonne suddenly straightened. The idea wasn’t that farfetched. In fact, the notion possessed a great deal of merit. Shoving aside her hurt and irritation about Falcon’s behavior last night, she took a mental inventory.
His lineage was impeccable, and his honor equally so. He didn’t possess a fortune or a title, but then, how many second sons did? Her marriage settlement, if managed wisely, would allow them a lifetime of relative ease. Nothing lavish, but modest comfort, which suited her fine, truth to tell.
They were compatible, already good friends, and he’d enjoyed their intimate encounter. At least she thought he had. That meant he found her somewhat appealing, didn’t it?
She bit her lip. Unless last night destroyed any chance of him wanting her.
He’d been brutal—more angry and hurtful than she’d ever known him to be.
Her heart gave a painful twinge. Well then, she’d have to change his mind. She had wanted to marry him for as long as she could remember. Only she hadn’t anticipated being the party to initiate the proposal. It just wasn’t done in the finer circles.
The coal tit hopped onto a branch and cocked its head, staring at her with tiny ebony eyes. Ivonne chuckled. “What’s wrong with a woman proposing to a man, I ask you, my petite friend? Female birds select their mates all the time.”
Did she dare?
Why not?
What did she have to lose?
Nothing.
And she had everything to gain if Falcon should agree.
It wasn’t likely he courted anyone else, as yet. He’d only been in England a few days.
Ivonne would rather risk humiliation by setting her cap for him than settle on one of the other men interested in her, or rather, interested in her marriage portion. If Falcon refused her, it didn’t much matter who she married. She would be miserable, thanks to the prince’s meddling.
With Falcon, she could be happy. Ivonne had never been more certain of anything. And she could make him happy, too, given the chance.
She had bribed Burke, the new under footman, to take a note round to Emmy this morning. Ivonne prayed for a prompt response from her cousin. Originally, she intended to use her cousin’s talents to prove to the pretentious ton that she could attract a great catch if Ivonne chose to. She hadn’t been of a mind to lure suitors before last night’s events. In fact, she’d done her best to repel them.
However, as of a few moments ago, her efforts centered on a single purpose—winning Falcon. She hadn’t any time to lose if, in the next fortnight, she was to convince him to marry her. She wasn’t sure how to go about wooing a man, but Emmy would know.
Her outlook much brighter, Ivonne smiled and glanced around the arbor. Last night she thought her life doomed when Falcon uttered those fateful words in the arbor. The Regent’s dictate might have made it possible for her to have the one thing that mattered most.
Falcon.
Humming a jaunty tune, she strolled the footpath to the house. Head down, she plotted her tactics. She imagined and analyzed every possible situation. Mother must be informed of the need of an immediate shopping excursion, and a new hair style, perfume ... everything.
Yes, this dowdy bird was determined to shed her dull plumage and leg-shackle herself to a divine husband. One god-like former soldier who’d soon forget he had ever looked upon her as an annoying little sister.
Assembling a mental shopping list, Ivonne plowed full on into a firm male body. She stumbled, her lame leg giving way, and lost her balance. Strong arms encircled her and held her tight to a wide navy-clad chest.
Falcon. She recognized his cologne and the breadth of his shoulders. The urge to snuggle closer to him, wrap her arms around his neck and kiss his jaw overwhelmed her. Instead, she breathed in his scent, savoring his unique aroma.
Now was as good a time as any to set the snare.
Tipping her head upward, she offered what she hoped was an enticing smile. “I was just thinking of you.”
Surprise tempered with wariness flitted within his eyes. He stepped back, his hands grasping her upper arms. “Were you now?”
Was he still angry?
“Yes, actually.” She nodded and peeked at him, and then, self-consciousness shrouding her, averted her gaze. “I was remembering last night.”
Ivonne wanted to say our kiss, but she lost her nerve.
Peering at him through half-closed eyes made it deuced difficult to see anything clearly. How women managed to look sultry while doing so, she couldn’t imagine. She wasn’t about to bat her eyelashes like Miss Rossington did. Ivonne feared she’d appear to be having an apoplexy.
Bother. She had much to learn about womanly wiles and little time to acquire the skills necessary to obtain her husband of choice.
Cautious, Falcon eyed her, a hint of amusement creasing the corners of his blue eyes. “Last night?”
“Yes ... er ...” At her ineptitude, dual paths of heat flamed across her cheeks.
He crooked a brow, his mouth sliding into one of his lopsided, boyish grins, though he offered her no succor. He wasn’t going to make this easy, was he?
Drawing a deep breath, Ivonne tried again.
“I enjoyed our time together last night. That is ...” She fumbled to a stop.
He bent nearer and whispered, “Which part?”
The seductive cadence of his voice sent tiny delicious shivers skittering across her bare arms. She stared at his lips. She wanted him to kiss her again. Desperately.
A half-smile curving his lips, he regarded her steadily.
An exciting spark heated her womanly places. She’d wager her best bonnet he knew exactly what direction her thoughts had taken.
He focused on her mouth. “Yes, that kissing bit was rather nice, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
His gaze glided over her, taking her measure her from slippers to hair, lingering the merest jot too long on her bosom to be considered polite. “You are lovely.”
Three simple words sent her senses into a riotous dither. Warmth scorched her cheeks again, and her tongue refused to form an appropriate response. Had he forgotten his irritation of last evening, or had he decided to put it aside? It mattered not to her. This was the charm
ing Falcon she remembered. The one she loved.
Tucking her hand into the bend of his elbow, he steered her in the terrace’s direction. Her knees threatened to give out at his touch. What a ninny.
Compose yourself, Ivonne.
His forearm flexed beneath her fingers. “I sought you out to apologize for my behavior last night.”
“There’s no need—”
“Yes, there is.” Falcon guided her to a scrolled metal bench in full view of the house’s French windows. “Please, sit and indulge me for a moment.”
Sinking onto the seat, she cast a surreptitious look at the manor. Dawson probably had her face pressed flat against the upper windowpanes while Mother peeked around the drawing room curtains and watched their every move. The last rays of the sun caressed the structure with their warm glow, making it impossible to discern if anyone did, indeed, spy upon them.
Hands folded in her lap, Ivonne faced him. Did he prefer demure, biddable women? She had no idea. She’d only been his friend until now. Before she bungled this wooing business beyond repair, she must meet with Emmy and discover what men desired.
Falcon sat upon the bench, a respectable distance between them this time. His buff doe-skins revealed long, muscled legs.
She covertly studied his groin, ignoring the tell-tale warmth suffusing her face once more. The bulge his pantaloons couldn’t hide seemed similar to those of other men. Everything appeared as it should, at least to her inexperienced assessment.
He fidgeted with his watch fob, running the fingers of his intact hand along the fine silver chain. “Last night, I took advantage of you—”
“No, I—”
He put one finger on her lips. “Shh, let me finish.”
She swallowed and clenched her fists to keep from tracing his finger with her tongue, or taking the entire thing into her mouth and sucking on it.
Where are these wanton ideas coming from?
He tossed a glance over his shoulder as if he, too, believed someone observed them. His sculptured mouth twitched. “I think we’re being watched.”
Ivonne giggled and leaned closer. “I’m sure of it. Too bad we don’t dare give them something to gape at.”
Staring straight ahead, he didn’t respond. “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I had no right. But more on point, I beg your forgiveness for accusing you of satisfying your curiosity with me, and then saying those other deplorable things.”
He finished the last with a rush of words, as if he’d dreaded saying them.
Ivonne cocked her head, studying his profile. His remorse appeared genuine. Her pulse gave a little leap of hope. This made what she was about to suggest all the more feasible.
“Falcon.” Jaw flexed, she pulled in a lengthy gulp of air and delved for courage. She pinched her fingers together, striving for calmness. “I have something to ask you.”
“There you two are. Mother said I’d find you out here somewhere.”
Allen? Ivonne twisted to look behind her. He strode the distance to the bench. The curtain twitched in the drawing room. Mother?
Ivonne and Falcon sat in plain view.
Had Mother sent Allen after them? Whatever for?
“I received some news that will be of great interest to you, Falcon.” Ankles crossed, Allen rested his left hip against the balustrade. A peculiar expression settled on his face. His gaze swung between her and Falcon. “Am I interrupting something?”
Yes, dear brother, you are. A proposal.
“No, not at all.” Falcon shook his head.
Allen flashed Ivonne one of his devastating smiles. “Mother asked me to remind you it’s time to dress for the Vanbroke’s musicale.”
Ivonne furrowed her forehead and laced her fingers. “After last night, I expected we’d cry off attending.”
“No.” Allen firmed his lips and straightened. “Father insists the entire family put in an appearance to curb the gossipmongers’ wagging tongues.”
Too late for that, she feared. She turned her attention to Falcon. Rising, she straightened her gown. “Are you joining us? Safety in numbers, you know.”
She tried to make the question seem casual, not as if her very future depended upon him being by her side from this point forward. Curling her toes in her slippers, she struggled to calm her nerves. If she stuck to him like fuzz on a peach, she’d send a clear message to everyone.
She’d made her choice. He just didn’t know it.
“No, I’m afraid not.” Falcon slid Allen a significant look.
Allen’s eyebrows formed a puzzled vee, yet he remained silent.
Returning his fob to its pocket, Falcon stood. “I’ve been invited to dine with the Sethwicks this evening.”
His gaze lingered on Ivonne’s face, as if trying to memorize her features. Or gauge her reaction?
She swallowed, suddenly not wanting to hear what he was about to say.
He stared at her intently. “Lady Sethwick’s shipping offices in America have a position available that I’m interested in.”
Bride of Falcon: Chapter Thirteen
Back rigid, Chance held his breath, waiting for Ivy’s reaction. A muscle ticked annoyingly at the corner of his eye, revealing his agitation. Much weighed on whether she wanted him to stay. Moments ago, sitting beside her, he’d been tempted to throw good sense to the wind and ask her to be his bride, propriety be hanged.
A soft gasp escaped her. “America?”
She darted Allen an anxious glance before returning her attention to Chance. Her eyes, an unusual pewter shade in the dusky light, widened in astonishment and glistened suspiciously.
Tears?
He revered her with his gaze.
Bronze highlights shimmered in her hair, and her skin, pale as pearls, glowed in the sun’s fading rays.
He longed to tell her of her beauty with more than words. To take her in his arms and worship her with his lips and body, to whisper the words of adoration he didn’t dare share.
“America?” she rasped again, her lips trembling. Shaking her head, she clapped a hand to her mouth, her curls and peridot earrings bouncing from the frenzied movement. Without another word, she whirled away and hastened to the house.
For the first time, Chance noticed her lopsided gait.
Allen chuckled softly and sent him a sidelong glance. “I’d say that answers the question of where her affections lie, my friend.”
Chance had initiated a very candid conversation with Allen after overhearing the remark at White’s about Prinny’s ludicrous decree. The Wimpleton heir had been delighted when Chance revealed his love for Ivy. Allen promised to throw all his support behind Chance’s attempt to win her hand.
If Lord Wimpleton once more denied Chance’s request to marry her, wisdom dictated he have an alternate plan. He’d chosen America as that option.
“Yes, my unflappable sister is in a dither at the notion of you sailing off across the Atlantic to the wilds of America.” He slapped Chance on the back.
Chance flinched, smothering a foul oath. “Bugger it. Have care for my injured arm, will you?”
“Sorry ‘bout that.” Allen grinned sheepishly. He jabbed his thumb in the direction Ivy had disappeared. “That wasn’t the reaction of a disinterested woman. No, I’d say she’s already smitten.”
A cocky grin tilting his mouth, he stepped away and took Chance’s measure. “I suppose you’ll do for a brother-in-law.”
Chance allowed himself a cautious smile. “Not so fast. There’s your father to convince. He must be made to see that I’m the best choice Ivy has for happiness.”
“You haven’t seen the competition.” Allen laughed and scratched his nose. “Trust me. Father, and Mother, especially, will be groveling at your feet in gratitude. They want my sister to be happy, which is why they haven’t pushed her to marry before now.”
He rested a hip on the bannister and gazed at the brilliant sunset.
“Truth be told, I’m rather surprised how easily Father conceded to Prinny
’s demand. I have no more desire to incur the Regent’s wrath than anyone else, but Father didn’t attempt to stall his royal rotundness.”
Allen pulled on his earlobe, his countenance bewildered. “Wholly out of character for my sire, I assure you.”
He swung his gaze to Chance, speculation in its green depths.
“It’s almost as if he knew of your interest in my sister.”
Chance gave a low laugh. “He did. I asked for her hand years ago. The viscount told me to make a request again when she was older, and I had something to offer her.”
Allen’s fell open. He gaped at Chance.
“Devil it, you didn’t. He didn’t.” Allen turned to stare at the house. “That sly fox. He knows exactly what he’s about.”
His mouth skewed into an appreciative smirk, he shook his head. “He knows Ivonne’s taken with you and won’t accept another. Father’s forcing your hand.”
Chance wished he agreed with Allen’s assessment of the situation. Truth be told, his friend’s explanation seemed far too simple and fortuitous.
“Perhaps, however, I have my doubts.” Straightening his waistcoat, Chance shifted toward the manor as well.
“I’ve been absent six years. People will find it peculiar that immediately upon my return to England, Ivy and I are betrothed. You know they’ll ask why there wasn’t a single hint or mention of an arrangement between us in all this time.”
The sun sank lower on the pastel horizon. A cricket’s buzzing chirrup rang nearby. He needed to be on his way soon, or he would be tardy for dinner. Not the way to impress a potential employer.
“How do you and your parents intend to explain other men courting your sister in my absence?” He rubbed his sore arm and then snorted. “Brows will raise and whispers will be tossed about, if I can somehow manage to get Wimpleton’s approval.”
“Oh, you’ll get it all right,” Allen assured him. “And don’t worry about the courting. None of those sots ever paid her their formal addresses. A few unworthy curs sought her hand, but Father made it clear they should turn their attentions elsewhere.”
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 29
