by Darcy Burke
Miriam sipped a glass of punch. Spotting Lizzie with Spence’s arm over her shoulder between dances, she marched over. “Lizzie, I hate to ask but I must. Where is Lord Northcote staying?”
“At the cabin,” replied Lizzie, a gleam in her eye. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, I was thinking. If he came here for you, and now you two have split, perhaps he doesn’t know that everyone is welcome to the Dance Beneath the Stars. Someone ought to tell him, don’t you think?”
“If you want to tell him, go right ahead, Miriam. I do believe he would appreciate the company.” Lizzie turned to Spencer and kissed him. How long before word of her most recent dalliance got back to Arthur?
It wasn’t her affair. Miriam turned away from the sight and hurried away from the party. The whitewashed exterior glowed in the rising moonlight. Before she could second-guess herself, she gathered her skirts and bounded up the steps. She rapped loudly at the door. Footfalls on floorboards indicated someone was inside. Her heart leaped into her throat as the rough door scraped open.
“Hello, Miss Walsh.”
Miriam gulped. Lord Northcote had just finished shaving. She recognized the scent of his soap, besides which the man was naked to the waist, his shirt flung carelessly over a nearby chair. A single candle in a glass dome flickered next to the washstand.
“I—”
“Would you like to come in for a glass of wine? As you see, I am not quite ready for the evening’s entertainments.” His dark eyes dared her to wickedness. Lightheaded, Miriam held his gaze. He smirked and turned his back, giving her a full view of the play of his muscles and the indentation of his spine. Richard’s broad shoulders sloped into narrow hips and two tight rounds of buttocks. Miriam exhaled at the thought of grasping them with both hands as he…did ungentlemanly things between her thighs. The specifics of what he would do there remained vague in her imagination. Miriam had been horrified when Mrs. Kent had explained the mechanics of sexuality to her. Yet the idea of twining their bodies together held a sudden, visceral appeal.
Inside the little cabin, a bottle of wine sat on the table. There was only one glass, with a red ring in the bottom. Lord Richard poured water into the vessel, tossed it, and wiped the rim with a rag.
“Yes. Please.” Miriam needed the glass of wine, after the hot flush of desire that left her weak-kneed. She was deeply aware that she had broken every rule by coming here. “May I take it on the porch while you finish your preparations?”
“Of course. I admire your sense of propriety, Miss Walsh.” Richard returned and passed the glass through the door. Their fingertips brushed as she accepted the vessel. Another ripple of desire ran up her arm like a stone thrown into a pond at the light contact. “I was not sure whether I would be welcome at the party this evening.”
“You are. I have come to personally ask you to the dance.” Miriam thought her words came out smoothly considering the turmoil that made the red liquid in her cup tremble on account of weak fingers.
“Then I shall attend, Miss Walsh, on one condition. You must promise me a waltz.”
Miriam shivered. “Of course.”
She returned outside and held the wine glass unsteadily. Miriam could envision herself promising Lord Northcote anything he asked of her.
Richard kept silent as they walked along the path. The sounds of merriment echoed into the night: barks of laughter, the ebb and flow of voices in conversation. Threaded through the sounds were strains of music.
Before anyone could spot them, Richard reached forward and tugged her hand. “Wait. You should go in first. I don’t need the guilt of taking a shine off your sterling reputation, Miss Walsh.”
“I confess myself touched at your concern for my welfare, Lord Northcote,” she responded breathlessly.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What should I call you?” Miriam asked, pressing closer to his strong body. The hard press of his thighs against her skirts sent a fluttery sensation through her midsection.
“Richard. In truth, I am called lord only by courtesy.” His arm braced at the small of her back. Too familiar but too delicious to make him stop. A warm summer breeze kissed her exposed skin at the neckline of her modest, girlish gown and her forearms, but it did little to cool the heat on her cheeks.
“What does that mean, precisely?” she asked.
“It means I am in no danger of inheriting a title. I am only styled lord because I had the very good fortune of being born to an earl,” he explained in a bored tone. Richard must have tried to explain this to many of her fellow countrymen.
“Then, why won’t you be an earl one day? Isn’t that how it works?” After the unthinkable happened. Miriam shuddered at the thought. This was not a night to summon death.
“Because there is only one earldom, and I have an older brother who has inherited it,” Richard replied patiently.
“Oh,” Miriam replied, feeling small. Of course, there would only be a single heir. Primogeniture wasn’t the law here as it was in England, but she had read about it.
“The only way I can become the earl is if my brother and his newborn son were to perish,” Richard continued. “I am not such a monster as to desire the death of a babe.” He paused. “Though undoubtedly some would describe me as such.”
“Why?” she asked. But he only cast her a sidelong glance and sighed.
Miriam felt as though she should offer him something in return for his rueful confession. “You can call me Miri if you like. Only my father and Lizzie do now. It sounds childish, though.”
“I disagree. It is beautiful, and perfectly suited to a goddess of the night.” He caressed her jaw with the back of one knuckle. She raised her face to his and found Richard staring at her with a hooded, unreadable gaze. Miriam glanced away.
“I never had a nickname.” His arm fell away from her waist, and they continued along the beach as though the intimate moment hadn’t happened. Miriam would have called his words sad, but the lament in his voice conveyed too much raw pain for such a tepid description.
“Not even Richie, as a little boy?” she asked.
Richard lifted one shoulder. “No one ever cared enough to give me one, I suppose. My older brother called me Itchy when we were young. He was barely two when I was born and could hardly pronounce my name.”
Miriam snorted a laugh. Her hands flew to her lips.
Horror washed through her. What must he think?
Richard laughed too. Relief washed through her as bracing as a winter wind off the Hudson River.
“Rich?” Miriam tried the name on for size and decided that she didn’t like it.
“Inapt, for I am as poor as a church mouse.”
“Oh.” Miriam had no idea what to say to this revelation. She had never been poor. She could not imagine the first thing about her life if she did not have ample resources to pay for her lodgings, for fine gowns, for a full-time trained nurse and the best physicians in America, along with visits to the seaside whenever her health took a turn for the delicate. Physical labor was not an option. It would kill her in short order if she attempted it. Even with the agreeable sea air, splashing about in shallow water had stolen her breath. What would it be like to lose her fortune and her family in a single stroke of bad luck?
They stood there in the shadows of the party, watching. “Do you like working?” Miriam asked, inanely.
“I find that I do, actually. It was not until I came to America that I learned to value physical exertion. In England the upper-class scorn labor, generally. Unfairly, as I am starting to understand,” he responded after a moment. She liked his thoughtfulness.
“I work for my father sometimes. Small things, like researching investments.” Miriam did not mention the substantial pile of money that she had amassed by investing her own money. Her one act of rebellion had been to open an account in the name of Marshall Walsh, which she held independently, with her father’s approval and occasional assistance. “Things that don’t trigger my asthma.�
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“Is it difficult, living with a delicate condition?” Richard asked.
The last thing Miriam wanted was his pity. “It’s nothing if I manage it. I can’t exercise to any great extent. Overtaxing myself always triggers an episode. It is worse in the late summer and fall, which is why I spend so much time at the seaside. That and of course it is so wonderfully pleasant here.”
“It is, truly. I had not expected such a wild place,” Richard remarked. He sounded genuine.
“Are the rumors true? Did your brother send you into exile?” The question burst out of Miriam. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’ve overstepped. I am unable to fathom such a thing. How could a sibling do that to his own brother? I would have loved to have a sister or brother while growing up…”
Miriam trailed off as Richard cupped her chin. He gazed down into her eyes for a long minute. She found there a sadness that chilled her heart.
“It is true.”
“Why?” Miriam whispered. A whisper of fear sang through her nerves. She did not know this man and had little experience with men outside of her father and his rough set of business partners or the over-mannered wealthy denizens of New York. Lizzie’s people.
“Because I killed my own father,” Richard replied.
Miriam swallowed. He saw it and smiled, not kindly. Like a wolf hunting prey.
“I am a very bad man, Miriam. If I were you, I would run very, very far away from me, starting right now. Because if you don’t leave now, I am not going to be able to resist kissing you. Consider yourself warned.”
Miriam didn’t move a muscle. Instead, she licked her lips in anticipation.
When he bent his head to hers, he smelled of shaving soap and spice. His touch was feather-light, the mere brush of his lips against hers. He was waiting for her to bolt. Miriam did not wait for him to take charge. Her hands reached up to entwine in his thick, dark hair. Richard’s skin was smooth against hers as she pressed her lips artlessly to his.
It was her first kiss, and he made it perfect. Richard’s arm encircled her waist, drawing her close against his hard body. He pulled her closer than Miriam had ever been held by any man, and for a moment the unfamiliar contact made her stiffen.
“Should I stop?” he murmured against her cheek.
“No. Continue, please.” After all, Miriam might never have another opportunity to feel breathless and eager as her breasts brushed his shirt. Lord Northcote’s trousers whispered against the fine fabric of her skirts. The world retreated into a magical cocoon with only room for the two of them and the night air.
Her first adventure with love felt heady and wonderful. When he shifted his hips and led her into a hazy, shifting dance beneath the stars, kissing languorously all the while, Miriam relaxed against his broad, strong body. Ocean waves thundered in the distance. Music floated on air from the balcony above. By the time the last note had faded into silence, they were as entwined as two people could be with their clothing still more or less in place.
Despite his warning that he was a bad man, Richard’s touch was utterly gentle, leaving Miriam desperate for more. She parted her lips and experienced a shock of wanton desire as Richard’s tongue invaded her mouth. Miriam reveled in the kiss, exploring the sensual play of his tongue, inhaling his breath and the warmth of his skin as they swayed gently in the moonlight. Miriam had never felt this delirious. She had hardly touched the wine. She was not drunk on anything but the presence of one impoverished English aristocrat who claimed to be very bad, but who felt wonderful indeed.
“I wish this could go on until morning,” he finally said hoarsely. “But the party is ending. You will be missed. I must return you to your people.”
“Mrs. Kent will be terrified,” Miriam acknowledged with breathless embarrassment.
He smiled, holding her shoulders with large warm hands. Miriam kissed his knuckle. He smiled and touched her cheek.
“Tell her I will be calling on you.”
Miriam felt giddy. “So much for bad boy Itchy,” she laughed. “You are a perfect gentleman.”
Richard scowled.
“Oh. I apologize. I forgot that you didn’t like the nickname. Well, Richard. I care enough to give you a nickname. Give me a bit of time, and I’ll find a better one than Itchy.”
He laughed. “Go now. Young women shouldn’t be out naming creatures they find in the forest at midnight. You might find yourself saddled with a pet you hadn’t anticipated.”
Miriam laughed again. “I’m not superstitious.” She gathered her skirts close around her as she picked her way through the brush. Richard had said he would call, and Miriam believed him. This had to be it. The start of her real life, her great, grand adventure. Her more.
Chapter 7
He had warned her, and she still hadn’t run. Either Miss Walsh hadn’t believed him, or she fancied herself more intelligent than the average girl. Richard cursed Miriam Walsh for a fool.
It did absolutely nothing to diminish the memory of Miriam’s artless embrace.
Her slim body had fit neatly against his. She was tall enough to rest her pale cheek against his shoulder in a way that brought to mind those rare postcoital moments when he had tolerated a lover’s closeness. He must be smarting more from Lizzie’s manipulations than he realized if Miriam’s soft hair against his chin had given him that much comfort.
As though he had conjured her by thought alone, Lizzie’s slight form appeared out of the darkness. Again, she wore white. Richard wanted to throttle her for being so incautious.
“Richard?”
“Go away, Lizzie.” He had an obligation to support his child. He did not intend to let her impulsiveness ruin their plans, however distasteful he found them.
“Richard, you are doing brilliantly! Miriam is halfway to being in love with you already!” Lizzie hopped and clapped her hands like a little girl. Richard held some doubts as to that. Miriam appeared to be taken with him for reasons of her own.
She bounced closer to him, and Richard caught a whiff of alcohol. Suddenly furious, Richard stomped down the porch steps and grabbed her roughly by the arm.
“Get soused again, and I will have you confined for the duration of your pregnancy.” Although he had never paid much attention to the problem, even Richard had heard of women in London’s St. Giles slum who drank to excess and produced small, sickly babies that failed to thrive. Those that survived grew into slow adults.
“You have no right,” she growled. “Only Arthur can confine me against my will, and that only as long as he remains my husband.”
Lizzie stared up at him with a mulish expression. Her face sported a goose egg on the forehead and the beginnings of a shiner beneath her left eye.
“What the hell happened, Lizzie?”
“I—” She tried to shake him off. Richard gripped her arm tighter.
“You’re hurting me, Richard,” she complained.
“You’re injured. Tell me what happened. Now.”
“I tumbled off the porch rail tonight at the dance,” Lizzie pouted, jerking her head away.
Richard swore. “This is the same boy you were frottaging with in the water today?”
“Are you jealous?” she asked coyly over her shoulder.
“Of course not. Lizzie, we are no longer together. I will do what I must to ensure that our child has an income and a future, but I cannot and will not marry you.”
Lizzie looked shocked. “But you love me. You adore me. You said it…”
Richard shook his head. “I have never said I loved you. That was always your interpretation. We were finished the minute you blackmailed me into seducing Miriam Walsh.”
“Blackmail?” Lizzie’s mouth hung agape. “I did no such thing! You ought to be grateful I’m giving you a family.” Lizzie poked his chest with one diminutive but painfully pointy finger. “It’s not as if your own family wants you.”
Her words stabbed through him.
“Legally, you are Arthur’s family, as is y
our child.” Richard winced as one blow landed on his solar plexus. He caught Lizzie’s fist in his as an icy calm descended over him. The past few days had been clarifying. He could see now that Lizzie is not right. There is something deeply and profoundly wrong with her, and it makes him a little afraid. Yet, Lizzie was the woman he deserved. Every single step he’d taken in his life had led Richard to this moment.
Lizzie wrenched free of his hold, bringing him back to the present. Richard let her go. She reared back and decked him so hard and so abruptly that Richard bit his tongue.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Richard touched the spot and found red glistening on his fingertips.
He spat.
She stood there fuming and shaking her hand. “Ow.”
Richard grinned as red streaked down his chin and dripped onto his shirt.
“I like Miriam. I do believe I might woo her in earnest,” he declared. Miriam Walsh was a million times more appealing than the past paramour he couldn’t rid himself of. “She seems like a woman worth falling in love with.”
Richard stared hard at Lizzie until she backed up a step, one eye wide, the other swelling shut. “You’re cracked,” Lizzie declared, still rubbing her knuckles. “Miriam would never be stupid enough to fall in love with a penniless fraud like yourself. Not for real. She’s brilliant. She invests in the stock market under an assumed name. She has thousands of dollars of her own, as if being her father’s sole heir weren’t good fortune enough. I doubt she’d care if you passed me a sizable amount to pay for the baby we share.”
She blinked like a basilisk, a sure sign she was lying about something. But which part of her statement, Richard wondered?
“I pray you’re right, Elizabeth Van Buren. Because if Miriam is foolish enough to let me into her heart, I intend to marry her. Should a wedding come to pass, I’ll support you and our bastard. Don’t force me to take the child from you.”
As though Richard knew what to do with an infant, beyond hiring a nursemaid. It doesn’t matter. If there’s a child, this woman is not fit to raise it. She would harm the baby if it suited her own purposes. As imperfect as he is, Richard can at least promise to provide a safe home and an education. A childhood free from abuse. It isn’t nothing.
