The footsteps on the other side of the dressing screen didn’t sound like Barton’s. Wick saw why when a female stepped around the wooden panel…the maid who’d brought up the water for his bath. She was buxom and seemed to be missing the fichu she’d been wearing earlier. Her breasts were nearly spilling from her neckline.
“May I, er, help you?” he asked.
She held up a tin jug. “Wanted to see if you needed more ’ot water, sir. And if you be wanting me,”—her eyes wandered boldly over his wet chest, lingering at the point where the suds just covered his groin—“to ’elp with your bath?”
The Pig & Whistle had advertised that their lodgings came with “all the conveniences,” but Wick hadn’t expected this particular one. Nor had he any interest in it. He refused the maid’s services, assuaging her pout by telling her to collect a coin from his valet on her way out. When the door closed behind her, he lay his head back against the tub’s edge, his well-used muscles relaxing in the silky water.
There’d been a time in his life when he would have taken the maid up on her offer without thought. In his early twenties, he’d been a shallow, arrogant bastard, one who thought only of himself and his own pleasures. His behavior had been the height of irresponsibility…and he and others had paid the price.
His signet ring gleamed wetly on his right hand, a reminder of what his excesses had cost. Of the woman whom he hadn’t loved but whose heart he’d recklessly broken. Monique had died a decade ago, and while he hadn’t killed her, he bore responsibility for her death.
As always, when he thought of that ignominious period of his life, he thought of the people he’d hurt. Back then, he’d blamed everyone else for the consequences of his feckless behavior…especially his older brother Richard. He still didn’t know how Richard could forgive him for being a selfish cad—and for causing waves in Richard’s courtship of Violet. Luckily, everything had turned out happily for the pair, but Wick knew he didn’t deserve the love and support the couple gave him so unconditionally.
He expelled a breath and reached for the bar of soap, specially blended for him by an apothecary on St. James’s Street. There was no changing the past. In the intervening years, he tried to make up for it by getting his financial affairs in order and making amends where he could. He’d adhered to a strict code of behavior…until the masquerade. As he ran the soap over his chest, he thought wryly that it was just like him to find a virgin at a bloody orgy.
And not just any virgin but Beatrice Brown.
The most entrancing and exasperating lady he’d ever met.
There was a certain irony to the fact that he, considered one of London’s most eligible bachelors, didn’t seem to warrant the slightest consideration from her. She’d thrown his offer back like it was a too-small fish when many a marriage-minded miss would have given their eyeteeth to land him. Admittedly, Beatrice’s refusal didn’t put him off in the slightest. It wasn’t just the challenge of her that he enjoyed—although he did adore their banter—but the complex sum of who she was.
A sultry masked lover. A vulnerable innocent. A caring and capable mistress of the estate.
He had a feeling that he was just scratching the surface of Beatrice. That she would take a lifetime to know…and she would never bore him. While his honor had obliged him to make her an offer, he’d been surprised to discover that he was far from unwilling to make her his bride. In the past, whenever the topic of marriage had come up, he’d heard the slamming of a cell door. Or, worse, the tense, inescapable silence that had characterized the state of affairs between his own parents.
The notion of marriage to Beatrice, however, brought a strange sense of calm. In her presence, the void inside him seemed to lessen. Curiosity had once prompted him to ask Richard how the other had known that Violet was “the one.”
Just knew. Richard had shrugged in that stoic way of his that had always reminded Wick of their dead papa. But then his brother’s eyes had lit with humor. My lass has a way of making an impression, no?
Since Violet had pushed Richard into a fountain on their first meeting, Wick couldn’t disagree. He had a particular fondness for his sister-in-law and saw resemblances between her and Beatrice. Both were unconventional ladies. Spirited and strong, they were fiercely loyal to those they cared about.
Working alongside Beatrice’s farmers, who gossiped more than housewives, had given Wick the opportunity to learn more about his future bride. According to the men, Beatrice was generous and kind, giving everyone a fair shot, even those who were shunned by society. She was good to her word and expected others to be too. No one knew anything about her past or the family she’d been born into, but she treated the Sheridans—Miss Fancy and the rest of the travelling clan—as if they were her kin.
At the same time, she suffered no fools. Ellerby had told him that she’d ejected some bastard named Randall Perkins from her property after he’d been caught harassing her lady’s maid. Perkins, apparently, had been none too happy about losing his cottage, yet Beatrice had stood firm.
Her strength of will didn’t surprise Will one bit; hell, he admired her for it.
Miss Brown is an independent female, make no mistake about it. Ellerby had given Wick a man-to-man look. But that big, empty manor ’ouse must get lonely. My Ellen reckons a strong woman like Miss Brown needs an even stronger man to make ’er happy.
Was Wick the man for the job? As he lathered his hair, he felt self-doubt creep over him. He’d come a long way since his younger days, but even now he felt wary of being trusted with another’s happiness. Most women wanted him for his looks or money, not his character, a fact that had suited him just fine…until Beatrice.
For some reason, her comment that she’d only been drawn to his physical qualities and perceived abilities in bed had stung. Her assumption that he would try to blackmail her was even worse. What kind of a man did she think he was? Moreover, what had happened in her past to give her such a cynical view of human nature?
Nonetheless, he thought as he rinsed, physical attraction and sexual compatibility gave them common ground to start. Both were ineffable yet necessary qualities that he was looking for in a mate—ones that, for him, were either there or not.
Luckily for him, both were present in spades with Beatrice.
Memories of the masquerade washed over him. Christ, she’d been hot, as hungry for him as he’d been for her. Those breathless pants she’d made, the way she’d rubbed her drenched virgin cunny against his tongue and then his cock, begging to be taken. The way she’d surrendered completely to him, her pussy milking him of his seed…
Laying his head back against the tub’s edge, he fisted his rod, the flesh already turgid and pulsing. He frigged himself idly, not with the intent to climax but just to enjoy the sensations of arousal. Of desire brought on by thinking about Beatrice.
His lust was amplified by possessiveness. He had never taken anyone’s virginity before, had never wanted to. Yet knowing that Beatrice had lain only with him, that he alone had known her sweet and generous passion, made him want to be not only her first lover but her last.
The more he thought upon it, the more compatible they seemed. Sexually, obviously, but also in their personalities. He found her resilience not only admirable but reassuring. While she might surrender delightfully in bed, in life she was an independent woman. Sensible and self-possessed, she wouldn’t have unrealistic expectations of marriage. He would do his utmost to be an excellent companion to her, but she wouldn’t depend on him for her happiness—which meant he could not disappoint her.
He rose from the bath, water sluicing over his hard frame. As he toweled himself off and rang for his valet, he knew that courting Beatrice Brown would not be easy. Then again, negotiation was his specialty, wasn’t it? The biggest obstacle seemed to be her stubborn refusal to see her own beauty; he decided he would work on that at the ball tonight. There was, of course, the looming complication of his railway and her land…
He donned his r
obe and told himself, One disaster at a time.
10
“Oh, Fancy,” Bea breathed. “It’s beautiful.”
“Do you like it, truly?” her friend asked eagerly.
That evening, while the harvest ball was in progress, the two women had snuck away for a private celebration of Beatrice’s twenty-fifth birthday. They’d gone to one of Bea’s favorite spots, a massive oak tree situated on the far side of the pond. According to her gardener, the tree was over a century old: it had giant, heavy branches that hung low to the ground, creating a cozy, leafy cocoon hidden from the outside world.
Darkness had fallen, and Bea and Fancy had hung their lanterns upon the overhead branches, bathing the space in a golden glow. They sat upon a natural indentation in the sprawling base of the tree that made a perfect bench. From the other side of the pond came the sounds of the ball: a lively reel, stomping steps, and laughter drifted over on the balmy breeze.
Earlier, Bea hadn’t seen Murray at the party…not that she’d been looking for him. Or, if she had, it had been so that she could talk to him and tell him to leave her be. Then Fancy had pulled her away from the celebration. As Bea didn’t like a lot of fuss, no one knew that it was her birthday except her dearest friend. Fancy, being Fancy, had brought her a gift.
Nestled in an old candy box, the organdy cap was trimmed with two rows of good quality lace and tiny rosettes made of ribbon. The cap had trailing ribbons embellished with more rosettes. The stitching was neat, the craftsmanship impeccable.
“I adore it.” Bea held up the cap, admiring her friend’s handiwork. “It would fetch a pretty penny at any Bond Street millinery. How did you come up with the pattern?”
“A lady in the village was wearing one like it. I asked her where she got it, and she looked down ’er nose at me.” Fancy mimicked an affected aristocratic accent. “You couldn’t afford it, gel. It came direct from London and is the crème de la crème of fashion.” She paused, rolling her eyes. “I may not know what crème means, but I know ’ow to sew a few pieces o’ fabric and lace together, I do.”
Such was Fancy’s talent that she could merely look at an item of clothing and reproduce it. Not only that, but she could take a few scraps—a bit of lace here, some ribbon there—and turn it into a masterpiece.
“The woman sounds horrid. I wish I’d been there to give her a piece of my mind.” Although Fancy always took such incidents in stride, Bea was indignant on her friend’s behalf. “I shall cherish your present all the more…”
She trailed off, turning her head at the sound of rustling leaves. An instant later, the branches parted, and Murray stepped through, ducking his head to avoid low-hanging bowers.
She sprang up from the bench, Fancy following suit.
“Good evening, ladies. What a charming hideaway.” He bowed, then said with a smile, “Pardon my interruption. I just arrived and was told Miss Brown might be by the pond…and I believe I just heard mention of a present. Is it a special occasion?”
Bea hesitated, gripping her cap. But when she’d stood, the box that had held the gift and the accompanying note had slid to the ground, and now Murray bent to pick it up. There was no way he could miss the large, painstakingly formed letters.
“Happy Birthday, Beatrice. From Your Friend, Fancy.” He tilted his head at Bea. “Today is your birthday?”
Seeing no reason to lie, she gave a terse nod.
“Happy returns,” he murmured. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring you a gift.”
You were my gift. She felt the warmth of his regard, his eyes taking on the flickering gold of the nearby lantern, and she couldn’t suppress a shiver of longing. That night with you was my one indulgence…and perhaps my greatest mistake.
“Why would you?” She collected herself. “You didn’t know. And even if you did, there’d be no reason for you to go to the trouble.”
His brows drew together, and he looked as if he might say something.
She decided it was time to take the bull by the horns. “Fancy, would you mind giving Mr. Murray and me some privacy?”
“Are you certain that’s a good idea?” Fancy said, her brow puckered.
“Go on and enjoy the party, dear.” Beatrice kept her expression composed. “I need to talk to Mr. Murray alone, and it might as well be now.”
With clear reluctance, Fancy left, sending Murray a look of warning on her way out.
“This is quite the lavish abode,” Murray commented.
He was looking around, his handsomeness gilded by the lantern light. His outfit struck the perfect chord for the occasion, the blue cutaway and smoke grey waistcoat and trousers elegant yet not too formal, his silver cravat tied in a casual knot. It said a lot about him that he’d chosen not to lord over the other guests with excessive finery.
It reinforced her conclusion that he wasn’t a bad sort. She knew she’d reacted rather defensively thus far and had decided to try a different tact. Surely he could be reasoned with; surely if she laid out the reasons why she must turn down his proposals for her hand and her land, he would understand. He would go away…and so would the foolish, painful yearnings he stirred up.
She took a breath. “I’d like to offer you an apology, sir.”
His gaze met hers. “What are you apologizing for, exactly?”
“I have been churlish,” she admitted. “Our meeting at the masquerade was supposed to be an anonymous, one-night affair. Seeing you afterward was a surprise. A discomfiting one. Nonetheless, that does not excuse my rude behavior and for that I am sorry.”
He regarded her with some surprise. His dawning approval caused her toes to curl in her slippers, for what reason she could not fathom.
“I accept your apology,” he murmured, “although it is quite unnecessary. I’m the one at fault with my precipitous appearances.”
“Are you saying that you’re sorry for dropping by uninvited?”
“I didn’t say I was sorry. Just that the fault was mine.”
At his unrepentant grin, she felt her lips quiver. “Regardless, we have not been going about this like reasonable adults, have we?”
“Not unless your definition of reasonable includes pitching hay for two days.” He gave her a rueful look. “It nearly killed me, and my back may never recover.”
His honesty startled a laugh from her. “Why did you volunteer in the first place?”
“Because I wanted to impress you with my manly skills,” he said mournfully.
It was fun to banter with him, to be playful. She nearly retorted that she and his manhood were quite well acquainted, but she caught herself. Heavens, the man’s flirtatious charm was subtle yet irresistible, making it all too easy for a woman to lose her head…and her purpose.
She straightened her shoulders. “Now that we have that out of the way, I see no reason why we cannot address our mutual concerns with respect and civility.”
“I agree.”
Encouraged, she went on, “There are, obviously, two issues before us. I’ll begin with my estate. I will not sell it to you, sir, for any sum.”
He didn’t counter her statement. Instead he asked in neutral tones, “Why not?”
“Camden Manor is more than a piece of property to me. It is my sanctuary.”
“Not only yours.” His gaze was shrewd. “Your estate provides a refuge for your tenants as well.”
His insight caught her off-guard. Shifting uncomfortably, she said, “My motives aren’t altruistic. I need tenants to farm the land. But I’ll not discriminate on any basis other than honesty and effort, a willingness to work hard.”
“Your farmers hold you in high esteem, Miss Brown. As do I.”
His gentle sincerity made her heart somersault.
She cleared her throat. “Then you understand why I will not sell you my land.”
“I do. But that doesn’t take a compromise off the table.”
She frowned. “What sort of compromise?”
“Before we get to that, I want to hear you
r reply to my proposal of marriage. That, I take, is the second issue before us?”
A part of her wanted to press him on the railway because there was no compromise possible that she could see. At the same time, anxious butterflies swarmed her at the mention of his other offer, and she wanted to get it over with.
“As flattered as I am by your proposal, I cannot accept,” she stated.
“Well, you’re nothing if not consistent.” He quirked a brow, not seeming the least bit offended. “Would you mind telling me why?”
“As I said before, we are not a match physically.”
He gave her a lazy, heated look. “That was not the case at the masquerade.”
“I had a mask on,” she said in exasperation. Was the man being purposefully obtuse?
“And it wouldn’t have mattered if you didn’t.” All sensual indolence fled him as he stalked up to her, took her chin in his big hand, making her meet his eyes. “Do you really think a scar could diminish your beauty? Could change a man’s attraction to you?”
Yes. A fist pounded painfully in her chest. Because it has before.
Because before…it changed everything.
“What happened, angel?” His voice gentled, as if he could somehow read her mind. “Did someone hurt you?”
Her throat closed. He was a light that threatened to expose her darkest corners. The part of herself that she kept locked away because the pain was too much to bear. She held onto her composure, the shield that had helped her to survive fortune’s slings and arrows. She drew the shutters over her heart. Shoved the memories back where they belonged.
She met his gaze evenly. “Neither my scar nor my past is subject to discussion.”
He studied her. “You’re right. Discussion isn’t getting us anywhere, is it?”
Surprised but relieved at his capitulation, she nodded. “It would be more productive if you simply accepted—” Her words ended in a gasp as he moved, quick as lightning, sweeping her feet off the ground.
The Duke Redemption Page 9
