Forever a Lady

by Delilah Marvelle

  An astounded laugh tumbled from his throat. He didn’t realize women of her caliber even knew such words. “Don’t make me gag that foul mouth of yours with linen.”

  “You don’t have to gag me, because I am never speaking to you again.” She pursed her lips as if to demonstrate just how serious she was.

  Women. One day fire, next day ice. “You won’t be tied for long. I’ll be back.”

  She rolled herself toward the edge of the bed and struggled against the belts again. “I’m not about to let you hang in the name of some bastard friend who—”

  “Coleman wasn’t in on this.”

  “That is even worse! Why, that means—”

  “What it means is that I was only able to scrape together two pounds on my own through honest work this week, despite putting in ten hours of sweat a day since I last saw you. And the man needs more than that. Another week of honest work wasn’t going to miraculously change his financial situation or mine.”

  She shifted and glared at him. “So instead of coming to me for money, you thought robbing Dunmore was a better idea?”

  “I thought you weren’t speaking to me anymore.”

  “Untie me!” she boomed, thrashing against the mattress.

  He sighed. Leaning down, he gathered his pistols and the bundle filled with jewels. “I’ll be back. Then you can shoot me, and we’ll call it even.”

  She paused, her features twisting. “Matthew. Let me help you. Before you find yourself at the end of a rope.”

  He tightened his hold on his pistols and the jewels. “You know damn well that if I give these back to Dunmore, I’ll be at the end of a rope anyway. Now, stay here. I’ll be back.”

  The following morning

  THE SLAMMING OF A DOOR from deep within the house startled Bernadette from sleep. She blinked. Gray morning light peered in through the edges of the embroidered lace curtains that still covered the windows of her bedchamber. She paused and then let out an exasperated groan, remembering the humiliation of having the servants unstrap her hands and feet after the man had left. Damn him. She thought that he was better than this. She didn’t know why, but she did.

  And of course, the bastard never came back.

  Men. She hated them. And she was never bedding another one ever again. No matter how well endowed or capable. She was done. Done!

  When another door banged open from somewhere down the corridor, this time shaking the furniture in her bedchamber, she sat up, the linen spilling down to her waist. Clutching her silk robe around her chemise, she squinted toward the direction of the doorway. What—

  The thudding of approaching boots echoed down the corridor. Bernadette’s pulse roared. She pinned her gaze to that closed door. Those boots didn’t sound friendly.

  She scrambled to the side of the bed and jumped down onto the floor. The door suddenly flew open and slammed against the wall, not only shaking the bed but making her screech.

  She froze, her breath hitching.

  A tall man, whose long black and silvering hair had been tied back from his chiseled face, loomed in the doorway, dressed in a frayed great coat torn at the curve of his broad shoulder.

  Her eyes widened. It was the same man who had been in the park that day alongside Matthew. Coleman. “What do you want?”

  He stepped into the room. “You. Who else?”

  Panic seized her. She was going to die. In her nightclothes!

  Ice-blue eyes penetrated her soul as he stalked toward her, his coat billowing around his body as those whitened-leather riding boots thudded closer. “Milton never returned to his room last night. After spending all bloody morning looking for him, thinking he was dead, I was informed by someone at Limmer’s that Scotland Yard up and seized him. So I went over to Scotland Yard demanding to know what he was being charged with, but no one there is telling me shite. Nor will they let me see him.”

  Bernadette sucked in a breath, slapping a trembling hand to her mouth. Her heart sank down to the tips of her bare feet at knowing he was officially set to hang. Oh, God. One of her servants must have gone to Scotland Yard last night, despite her asking for their silence, and now it was going to cost her the life of a man she should have never involved herself with in the first place.

  “Get dressed,” Coleman said. “You are using whatever title and wealth you have to get him out. I don’t even want to know what that stupid bastard did. I used to think I was crazy. Until I met him.” He whipped away. Stalking over to her large dresser, he threw open its doors, reached in and yanked out a morning gown. Marching it over to her, he held it out. “Put it on.”

  She tried to focus on what needed to be said and done. “You want to know why Scotland Yard seized him? I will tell you why. He stole heirloom jewels from a former lover of mine. Apparently, you were in dire need of money and he had a point to prove.”

  His eyes widened. “What?”

  “You heard me. One of my servants must have informed the authorities of what he did. That, or Dunmore himself was on to him and he never knew it. Either way, ’tis fairly obvious he is set to hang.”

  Coleman closed his eyes. “Christ. This is all my fault. I should have never—” Reopening his eyes, he bit out, “We have to get him out.” Stepping toward her, he opened the neck of the gown wide and yanked it down hard over her head.

  “What are you—” Stunned and unable to see anything but the folds of her lilac gown, she commenced shoving the material away from herself, only to find that he was tugging it farther down and around her body. As if he did this sort of thing all the time!

  When her head popped through, she struggled to poke an arm past the sleeve but found her other arm was stuck at her side, the material binding her into place. She glared. “After what he did to me, he does not deserve saving.”

  He pointed. “If he was good enough to bed, he is good enough to save. You’re heading your fancy self over to Scotland Yard right now, dressed as you are, and getting him out.”

  “Are you daft? I cannot appear pleading for his cause looking like some—some...half-bred, lopsided strumpet. They would only hang me right alongside him!”

  He paused as if acknowledging her point.

  She straightened and adjusted the dress about herself, attempting to free her other arm. Pressing her lips together, she shoved her arm through the remaining armhole, feeling utterly ridiculous. “Give me time to dress into something more appropriate. I need to not only look presentable but gather my thoughts as to how to do this. We only have one chance to get him out.” She glared. “And I highly recommend you remain out of sight. You are as much an accomplice to this as he is, regardless of whether you knew about it or not.”

  He shifted toward her. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture today. And I don’t care what you do, or what you say, just get him the hell out. Aside from his own life here, he’s got men depending on him back in New York. Men whose very lives will cease to exist if he ceases to exist. You got that?” He gestured toward the door. “I’ll be downstairs, looking for brandy. Get dressed.” He swung away and stalked out.

  She ground her teeth, refraining from spitting after him. Looking for brandy in her house as if it were his house, indeed. And she thought Matthew was a man who took what he wanted. No wonder the two were friends!

  This was exactly what happened to a woman who’d been locked away from the world too long. She emerged salivating like some fiend for adventure and passion and got herself involved with a one-eyed pirate, and now had to save said one-eyed pirate!

  Hurrying over to the tasseled calling rope beside the bed, she tugged on it several times, almost ripping it off. It was going to take a lot more than money to get him out. It was going to cost the last of her name. Meaning, the Burton name.

  Fortunately, the men over at Scotland Yard had known her late husband very well. William had valiantly supported the implementation of Scotland Yard long before Parliament had the decency to pass the Metropolitan Police Act. And fortunately again, the fading
mark from Dunmore’s crop was still visible enough for her to use of it whilst pleading Matthew’s case before the magistrates. It was now simply a matter of what sort of punishment she was going to implement against Matthew once she got the bastard out.

  Six hours later

  Scotland Yard

  A GRAY-HAIRED MAN who had just removed his top hat and set it between them on the table eyed him. Everything about the older gent reminded Matthew of a dead winter day. From his frosty hair to those gleaming, snow-white-colored gloves and rigid white collar and cravat, to his embroidered waistcoat, which matched his ridiculous fop-white trousers. All of that glaring white clothing horridly contrasted with the flat black coat over a stiff back.

  Several other men, all of them magistrates of some sort, sat in stern unified silence, lining the far side of a wood bench. Unlike Mr. Frost, they all wore black.

  Oh, yes. It was judgment day for a half-blind Irishman against a whole nation of two-eyed Brits. He could have damn well stolen a blade of grass and they would have hanged him.

  Matthew leaned far back against the wood chair until he teetered on only two of its legs and set his manacled hands against his thighs. He was going to hang. And his boys and the ward probably wouldn’t even know about it until long after his body had been tossed and rotted. He’d hanged not only himself but everyone back in New York, right down to Ronan. He should have never been so stupid as to believe his life could have amounted to anything more than what it always had been—nothing.

  “You are free to go,” Mr. Frost finally announced, examining his snowy gloved fingers. “Once you sign a few papers drawn up by the magistrates, we are done and hope to never see you again.”

  Matthew brought his chair back toward the table with a resounding thump. His manacles clanged against each other. “What?”

  Mr. Frost angled toward him and narrowed his gaze, pointing. “Fortunately for you, Mr. Milton, you had a most prestigious witness step forth—Lady Burton. Next time, try not to blatantly seize justice by the throat.”

  Matthew blinked rapidly, a pulsing knot overtaking his stomach. By God. The woman who had tried to shoot him in the name of another man, had, in the end, saved him. And he thought he’d seen it all. Mr. Frost gestured to the magistrates and then to Matthew. “Unlock his manacles, have him sign the papers and get him the blazes out. Case dismissed.”

  One of the men in black stood and rounded over toward Matthew. Humiliation tightened Matthew’s chest. He was going to have to face that woman now. Jesus and Joseph. And Mary. No.

  In a blur of hands being freed of iron, and a sloppy signature with an ink-dipped quill at the bottom of a parchment he didn’t even bother to read, he stood and was escorted out of the room through a side door.

  Neither his pistols nor his razor were returned to him.

  It was a bad omen.

  “Lady Burton awaits outside, Mr. Milton,” one of the magistrates tonelessly instructed, directing him to the main entrance.

  He was being turned over without any protection whatsoever to a woman who was going to be more interested in castrating him, not kissing him. Drawing in a good breath, he footed it outside into the cold, filmy rain that blanketed the gray afternoon. He halted in the open doorway leading out to the wide cobblestone street.

  Three young footmen in red livery lined a black lacquered carriage emblazoned with a crest. Bernadette regally stood before them on the edge of the pavement in a stunning black gown, looking like death and vengeance, whilst lingering just outside the open door of the carriage, which one of the footmen held open. Although her face was hidden beneath a long black lace veil that cascaded down from her bonnet, he had no doubt it was her. He recognized that overly stiff stance and the shape of that luscious body.

  Clearing his throat, he adjusted his wool great coat. Descending the set of stairs leading out toward the street, he approached her.

  Pausing directly before her, he blurted, “I think I love you. Despite everything.” And a part of him meant it. She saved his goddamn life.

  Her heel came down onto the pavement with a reprimanding click. “If only I felt the same about you, Mr. Patch.”

  Mr. Patch. That was new. And he had no doubt it wasn’t intended to be a compliment.

  She folded her gloved hands before her, her beaded reticule swinging on her wrist. “I trust there is no need for me to lecture you on the gravity of the situation from which I emancipated you.” That flurry of stern words ruffled the lace veil that masked her features.

  It bothered him to see only the faint outline of her face. It was degrading knowing she didn’t want to be seen with him in public. Not that he blamed her.

  He shifted his jaw. “Is there a reason for the veil?” He knew the reason, but he wanted to hear her say it.

  “No. I simply happen to like wearing veils on rainy days.” Her tone indicated quite the opposite. “Now, get in the carriage, lest we both get stoned by respectable society.”

  “I’m used to getting stoned. So you needn’t worry about me.” He pulled himself up and into the carriage, skipping the unfolded steps, and eased onto the length of the fine-leather-upholstered seat. He leaned back, noting all of the embroidered blue silk lining the walls and the ceiling of the large space. Hell looked rather impressive from where he was sitting.

  With the assistance of a footman, Bernadette was whisked up and into the carriage herself, her hands lifting her skirts enough to allow her movement. The lush scent of citrus seized the air around him, making him instinctively breathe in deep. He couldn’t escape her. Not that he wanted to. It was like the woman owned the air he breathed. He fisted his hands hard.

  She silently seated herself across from him, still veiled.

  The door was closed, trapping him in her world.

  He swayed against the movement of the carriage when it pulled forward. Scotland Yard eventually disappeared from his visible peripheral. Thank God.

  They rode on in silence.

  The veil swayed against her face and shoulders, but otherwise nothing, not even a slim gloved finger of hers, moved. It was as if she were waiting for him to acknowledge the long list of sins he had yet to pay.

  He huffed out a breath, setting both hands on his knees, and leaned forward. “I honestly don’t know what to say. I didn’t expect this. But thank you, Bernadette. It means more to me than you’ll ever know. I owe you my very life.”

  She pushed the lace up and away from her face with gloved hands, her dark eyes and arched brows appearing. “You think a thank-you and a mere apology is going to placate me? Is that what you think?”

  “No, I—”

  “I just hanged whatever was left of my name to ensure you did not hang. And the worst has yet to come, if the testimony I had to give is any indication. ’Tis a testimony that included why you stole those jewels and how you sought to slap Dunmore’s honor after what he did to me in the park, revealing that you and I are—how shall I say this?—lovers. ’Twas the only thing that saved you. Me admitting to a truth and twisting it enough to make everything fit for the magistrates. And given my extensive testimony that is now on public record—a record that includes your full name and my full name—by the end of this week, everyone who knows how to read a newspaper will know of it. Which means...if I remain in London beyond another week, it would be no different than me taking on the name of Marie Antoinette and staying for the French Revolution! Not even Georgia will be able to associate with me after this. And my own father, who already thinks the worst of me, will probably come to my door merely to cane me. So thank you for that. Thank you.”

  He could feel his heart and his blood pumping fast and strong. If the newspapers printed this, it was only a matter of time before New York knew about it. And if New York knew about it, those that wanted him dead would know about it. And considering that they were all worth nothing, he had no doubt her wealth could result in a kidnapping or two.

  Dread seized him. He supposed this is what happened to a man who
sought to change his stars. He died with them.

  The drizzling rain that had seeped its way through her veil now clung in a soft sheen to her nose and cheeks, making her pale skin glisten. The bruising lash on her jaw had faded considerably, though it was still visible.

  He stared at her, every muscle in his body as tense as stretched leather. Why did she think he was worth saving? Was it possible she felt something for him? That certain something that he’d felt for her from the moment he had touched her, obliterating his ability to think about anything else but making her his? “Why did you do it?”

  “Aside from getting a bedchamber visit from your bandit friend, who muscled his way past my servants?”

  Matthew lowered his chin. “Coleman was in your bedchamber?”

  “Yes. That heathen also tried shoving me into a gown whilst I was in a state of undress.”

  His eyes widened. That son of a bitch. “I’ll set that arse straight. Don’t you worry in that.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “I would suggest setting your own arse straight. For some reason, you seem to think that stealing is acceptable if it is done in the name of revenge or for a friend in need. Stealing is stealing, Matthew. Or did you not know that?”

  He shifted his jaw and sat back, feeling as if he’d been slapped. So much for her feeling a certain something. “Given your exceedingly low opinion of me, and your inability to understand that I owe Coleman my very life and have since I was twenty, why not just drop me back off at Scotland Yard? Because I don’t want to bloody listen to this. Nor do I have to. I apologized. And it was a heartfelt apology. What more do you want?”

  “I slaughtered the last of my name because of you, and you think a mere apology is going to turn you into Moses and part this bloodred sea for you? Is that what you think, you Irish blackguard!”

  He didn’t know whether to be irked or irked knowing this British vixen was throwing the Irish at him. He leaned forward again, draping his forearm on his knee. “I never asked you to slaughter yourself for me, but since you did, we now have ourselves a bigger problem. Seeing everyone in London is about to know of our association, it’s only a matter of time before those same papers float their way across the ocean. And once they do, one of at least fifty-six people who want me dead might think you’d be worth a good kidnap or two in the hopes of getting a fistful of money out of you.”