A Season To Remember

by Gayle Ava Stone, Jerrica Knight-Catania, Catherine

  Miranda leapt in surprise, not able to contain the yelp of disbelief that escaped her. Good heavens! She’d been assaulted, right in the middle of the crowded establishment! Her mouth fell open in indignation and she couldn’t quite find her voice.

  “Though in yer case…” The doxy placed a hand to her heart and cackled. “Ya might have the smallest cock in all of London.”

  The smallest cock in all of London? Who said things like that? Miranda’s face heated and she stumbled backwards, bumping into a something very large behind her.

  Miranda spun on her heel, staring up in to the green eyes of a handsome gentleman who could pass as Hercules’s double. Well, if Hercules wore jackets, waistcoats, and cravats instead of togas. The width of the gentleman’s shoulders was easily twice the size of Devlin’s. Miranda had never seen any man who looked as strong as this one. And when a rakish grin settled on his face, she couldn’t help but gulp.

  “Well, my good man,” the Herculean gentleman drawled, “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”

  She hadn’t seen him either. A man of his stature, she would have remembered. She lowered her head and said with the deepest voice she could muster, “New to Town.”

  “Indeed?” He laughed, which didn’t do much for her confidence. “Well, since you’re new to Town, I hardly think Gioco would be the best place for you to acquaint yourself.”

  He was certainly pompous, wasn’t he? Who was he to say where a young buck he’d never met could go or not go? “I appreciate your advice, sir, but I’m quite content here.”

  Again the gentleman laughed, and then he placed one of his enormous hands on Miranda’s shoulder and shoved her, not ungently, toward the exit. “Out with you.”

  Was he some sort of guard? No, he was dressed much too well to be a paid gaming hell henchman.

  “See here—” Miranda dug her feet in, refusing to move one more inch “—I can stay here if I want, and—”

  Hercules, or whatever his real name was, leaned down and whispered near her ear, “Should anyone discover who you really are, you’ll be done. Now turn around like a good little girl, and I’ll see that you’re returned home safely.”

  Miranda’s breath lodged in her chest. Did he know who she was? If so, shouldn’t she know him? Her gaze locked with his green orbs, and butterflies flittered about her belly. Who was he, this demigod who seemed intent on thwarting her? And why would he make her belly flip? She didn’t have time for a flipped belly. She had to find Tessie. She had to.

  The gentleman heaved a sigh. “Either you walk out of here using your own two feet, or I’ll toss you over my shoulder and carry you out. Your choice, madam.”

  Arrogant brute. Miranda’s belly stopped its fluttering as she narrowed her eyes on Hercules. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He shot her one last warning glance before bending at the waist and hefting her over his shoulder. Miranda squealed as her brother’s hat fell to the floor and her dark tresses tumbled forward, covering her face and, fortunately, her identity from the rest of the patrons of the hell. Hercules stumbled slightly as he started for the exit.

  Harry regained his balance and managed to keep from sending himself and the tempting little bundle over his shoulder to the ground. Falling would put a quick end to his chivalrous deed. Had he known he would have been required to carry a chit from Gioco’s tonight, he wouldn’t have downed that last whiskey.

  “Put me down!” The girl pounded on his back and squirmed in his hold.

  Harry glanced over his shoulder only to stare at her very shapely bottom, just a few inches from his face. He almost stumbled again. Damn it all to hell! “Stop moving,” he growled.

  “Put me down!” she demanded again.

  So that her identity would be revealed to everyone in the vicinity? Then the beating he was currently enduing would be for naught. Harry easily hailed a hack and hauled opened the coach door. With haste, he deposited the girl inside the conveyance, despite her kicking at him. Even though he knew he should send her on her way, he had no faith she wouldn’t get herself into more trouble along the way, though why he should worry himself, he had no idea. So after a quick glance around up and down Floral Street to see if they’d caught anyone’s interest, Harry climbed inside the hack after her.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  The chit folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. Her long dark hair spilled over her shoulders. From the stubborn set of her jaw and the regal way she held her head high, it was quite obvious the girl came from a well-to-do family. In fact, Harry wouldn’t be surprised if her father was a peer. What the devil was she doing, sneaking into a gaming hell in the middle of the night? When he only stared at her, the girl’s glare darkened, making it quite clear she had no intention of telling him anything.

  “It’s a short ride to Bow Street,” he threatened. “So either tell me where you live or I’ll find a Runner instead.” Whatever she was up to, odds were she wouldn’t want her father to find out.

  “If I thought they’d help me…” she mumbled so softly, he wasn’t sure he heard her.

  “What’s that?”

  She clamped her mouth closed again. Stubborn girl.

  Did she need some sort of help? “Are you in trouble?”

  She snorted. “Indeed. Some brute tossed me over his shoulder and threw me inside a hack.”

  At least she was talking. He bit back a smile. “Well, that brute is trying to help you.”

  “I was doing just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

  Oh, she was doing beautifully. Had she forgotten the painted whore who’d tried to grab her cock? “Gioco’s is hardly the sort of place for a girl like you.”

  “But it’s just sort the place for a man like you, is it?”

  It happened to be his favorite hell. Not that he had to explain himself to her. “Where shall I take you, Miss…?”

  “You can open that door and leave me be.”

  That wasn’t going to happen. “Very well.” Harry sighed. “I don’t know who you belong to, but I imagine the authorities will figure it out and return you to whomever.”

  At that, her eyes rounded in fear.

  Blast and damn. He hadn’t meant to scare her. He was trying to help, for God’s sake. “Please.” He softened his tone. “It’s been a long night. I just want to see you safely returned to your father.”

  Her eyes dropped to the ground as though he’d hit on something. Then she steeled her shoulders and sat her tallest, which wasn’t all that tall, and said with more bravado than a number of men of his acquaintance, “And why should you care?”

  She was a spitfire, and he couldn’t help but be slightly charmed. “You’re about my sister’s age, if I had to guess,” he explained. “And if Pippa ever found herself in a situation like this, I would hope someone would make certain she was returned home in one piece.” Then he shook his head and said, “Though I can’t imagine her doing anything so harebrained.”

  The exotic beauty frowned at him, not that Harry should have been surprised.

  “Sir?” the impatient driver called from his box. “Where to?”

  Harry leveled his most intimidating glare on the girl, the one he’d practiced on Pippa all of her life. However, this particular chit didn’t seem impressed at all. Well, he couldn’t sit in the hack all night, staring at the girl. “Bow Street,” he finally called.

  “Number four, Curzon Street!” the brunette yelled a half-second later, her face flushed even in the moonlight.

  “Number four, Curzon Street,” Harry repeated for the driver. So she lived in the middle of Mayfair, did she? Harry’d been right. She did come from a good family. “My sister lives on Curzon Street,” he said amicably as the hack lurched forward.

  “The one who isn’t harebrained?” she asked tartly, as though she wasn’t pleased to have been manipulated into giving him her direction.

  Harry laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Well, I’m not thrilled with her choice in husband
s, but she’d never dress like a dandy and sneak into a gaming hell.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t get to select our sisters’ betrotheds,” she grumbled.

  The tone of her voice and her sudden sour expression struck Harry as odd. Had he hit upon the reason for the chit’s middle of the night sojourn to Gioco’s? “Is that what you were doing? Tracking down your sister’s betrothed tonight? Hoping to get evidence of his low character?”

  An unladylike snort escaped the girl. “Fordingham wouldn’t be caught dead some place like that.”

  Fordingham? Harry sat back against the squabs. He knew who she was. Well, he knew who her family was, he silently amended. Devlin Bartlett had three half-sisters, didn’t he? Which one sat opposite him in the hack? “Your brother is Marston.” After all, the Earl of Fordingham had recently announced his betrothal to one of the viscount’s half-sisters. The little hoyden’s olive complexion made all the sense in the world now. Her late-mother was Greek, or was she Italian? The girl across from him certainly bore no resemblance to Devlin Bartlett, that was for sure.

  “You know my brother?” Miranda gulped. Blast it, she never should have mentioned Fordingham, that humorless prig. All of London was agog over Calista’s engagement to the arrogant earl. Now how was she going to escape her captor or savior or whoever Hercules thought himself to be?

  “Harrow,” he said in way of explanation.

  Harrow? He’d known Devlin since they were boys? A cold chill washed over Miranda at that news. All she could do was beg. “Please don’t tell my brother about any of this.” Devlin would murder her on the spot. The trousers, the sneaking out in the dead of night, the fact that she’d crossed the threshold of that gambling club.

  A rakish smile lit Hercules’s face once more. “Tell Devlin Bartlett that I’ve seen the shape of his little sister’s legs?” A laugh escaped him. “No, I won’t condemn myself to a dawn appointment, Miss Bartlett. What is your name, by the way? Your first name? I should know it, if I’m to keep your secret, shouldn’t I?”

  The shape of her legs? Good heavens! Even in the darkness, she’d wager he could see her blush. Drat it all! Nothing had turned out like it was supposed to. No one was to have noticed her. She shouldn’t even be having this conversation. She should have spotted that blackguard Stalbridge, demanded to know what he’d done with Tessie, and escaped before anyone was the wiser. Blast Hercules for figuring her out so easily. “You said you were keeping my secret so Marston wouldn’t put a ball in your chest. I don’t see that I owe you my name in exchange for your cowardice.”

  Hercules’s brow rose in amusement. The rogue was enjoying himself, drat him. “A wise man, not a coward.” He leaned forward on his bench, bringing his handsome face within a hairsbreadth of Miranda’s. His eyes – a lovely green, she could see now that he was so close – twinkled in the moonlight filtering into the hack. His whiskey-scented breath tickled her cheek. “As I see it, Miss Bartlett, I can’t tell your brother about our meeting, but neither can you. So you can either tell me your first name or I can claim a kiss instead for my troubles. Marston will be none the wiser, no matter your choice.”

  Miranda’s mouth fell slightly open and tingles raced across her skin when Hercules’s gaze lowered to her lips. Did he truly mean to kiss her? Good heavens! Why should the idea of kissing some strange man elicit such a reaction in her?

  “On second thought, I’d rather you not tell me your name.” His voice rumbled across her lips, which made her heart thump and something pool deep in her belly.

  But she couldn’t kiss him. She didn’t even know him. “Miranda.” Her name came out in a rush of air as she leaned back against the squabs.

  Hercules chuckled and looked rather pleased with himself. Had he tricked her into telling him? The fiend! “Harrison Casemore,” he said as he leaned back on his bench. “So very nice to meet you, Miss Miranda Bartlett.”

  Harry was still grinning the next morning as he sat at his brother’s breakfast table. The image of Miranda Bartlett leaping from the hack and scampering around to the mews behind Number four Curzon Street had replayed in his mind all evening. He doubted he’d ever forget the sight of her shapely legs as she ran toward her home. A more spirited girl he didn’t believe he’d ever met, and that was saying something.

  “Fill your pockets last night?” His older brother, Everett Casemore, the Marquess of Berkswell’s voice interrupted the lovely vision still dancing around in Harry’s mind.

  “I beg your pardon?” He focused on his brother, who had at some point taken a seat across from him at the breakfast table. When had he done that?

  “You’re smiling like the cat that ate the cream. Did you abscond with the entirety of some fellow’s fortune last night?” Berks eyed him warily.

  Harry shook his head. “Did poorly at the tables, actually.” But he felt like he might have won something much more important, a battle of will and wits against a very interesting young lady. She was quite the diversion from his losses. She could, he suspected, be quite the diversion from a lot of things, if given half a chance.

  “Who knew losing would make you smile like a dolt.”

  Harry shrugged. “I was thinking about paying Pippa a visit this afternoon. You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

  Berks frowned at him as though he’d sprouted a second head. “I’ll be in the Lords today.”

  Which Harry knew perfectly well, but his mind was still in a bit of a jumble. If Berks was in parliament, then Marston should be too, shouldn’t he? And Number Four, Curzon Street, was not too far from St. Austell House. “Not all peers take their responsibility as seriously as you do—”

  “No, St. Austell won’t be in his seat, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Harry managed not to snort. He certainly hadn’t meant their dissolute brother-in-law. He shook his head. “I’d be surprised if he was. No, I was wondering about Marston. Devlin Bartlett was never meant to be the heir. Just wondering how he’s taken to his new responsibilities.” And whether or not Harry could count on the new viscount being at home that afternoon.

  “Tragic,” Berks agreed. “And the poor fellow has three sisters on the market. Having only Pippa was bad enough.”

  “Really only two sisters left,” Harry added. “Since the eldest has agreed to wed Fordingham.”

  Berks smiled. “Marston got off easy there. Fordingham’s not the most likable fellow, but more upstanding than St. Austell.”

  “The girl must be level-headed.” Much more so than at least one of her younger sisters. Poor Fordingham. “Man probably doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

  He must have given something away with that last statement, because Berks’s gaze took on a scrutinizing glint. “I had no idea you were so fascinated with Marston’s family.”

  “No fascination,” Harry protested. “Just making conversation.”

  His brother didn’t look convinced. “Uh-huh.”

  “So suspicious, Berks.” Harry chuckled.

  “Whatever else you’re up to, when you pay Pippa a visit this afternoon, do give her my love.”

  “Berks sends his love,” Harry said as he stepped into his sister’s parlor.

  Philippa, Countess of St. Austell, rose from her blue settee, grinning from ear to ear. “Harry!” She rushed forward and threw her arms around his middle, squeezing him as she had ever since she was a tiny little girl.

  He hugged his sister back and then tipped her chin up, so she’d have to look him in the eyes. If she lied to him, he’d know it. “Is St. Austell treating you well?” he asked the same question he always asked whenever he saw his sister these days.

  Pippa blushed a bit. “Jason is quite attentive. There’s no reason to threaten him again.”

  The devil if there wasn’t. Just the idea of how attentive the damned earl had probably been to make her still blush made Harry see red. Bloody reprobate. He still couldn’t fathom how of all the decent fellows in London, Pippa had somehow lost her heart t
o the wicked and debauched St. Austell.

  “Now tell me,” his sister said, attempting to change the subject as she tugged him toward the settee, “what brings you here so early today?”

  The proximity of your home to Marston House. No, that wouldn’t do. “Do I need a reason other than wanting to spend time with my little sister?”

  “Usually,” she replied, dropping onto the seat. “Not that I’m complaining. I don’t see you nearly enough these days.”

  Because her devoted husband was ever present, and remembering how St. Austell had lied his way into Pippa’s life still rankled Harry to no end. “Well, you’ll see me at your ball tomorrow,” he said, taking the spot beside her.

  His sister’s face lit up and she captured his hand with her small one. “I am so glad. It’s a bit nerve-wracking to do the first time. I can use all the friendly faces I can find.”

  “You’ll do wonderfully.” Then an idea occurred to Harry. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? “Tell me, are Marston and his family on your guest list?”

  “Marston?” Pippa shook her head. “I’m not familiar with the name.”

  No, she wouldn’t be. “The Bartlett family. They were in mourning during the Season, so you didn’t meet them. But they are your neighbors at Number four.”

  “Oh.” Pippa nodded.

  “Went to Harrow with the viscount. He has three sisters, all about your age.”

  She smiled, like she always did. His sweet, ever-trusting sister. It was no wonder St. Austell had manipulated her so easily. “Thank you, Harry. I would love to make their acquaintances.”

  And Harry would love to get his sister’s opinion on Miss Miranda Bartlett after she’d met her. “Actually, I was heading over to Marston House in a bit. If you have an invitation ready, I can deliver it myself.”