by Corwin, Amy
A knock at the door interrupted his dour thoughts.
“Yes?” he called.
Archer opened the door. He smiled and stepped through, drawing a deck of cards from his pocket as he entered.
“How are you feeling today, my boy?” he asked, pulling up a chair. He sat near the bed and fanned the cards out on the nightstand with a practiced gesture. “Finish your tea, and we can have a comfortable game of cards.”
Chilton grimaced before draining his cup. His purse was already too light without losing more to the old cheat. At this rate, he would have to forget about paying off the Violet’s vowel with cash and set about finding the note to steal it back.
And given Chilton’s current run of luck, Archer probably carried the blasted document in his waistcoat pocket.
“Are you ready for a game? Awfully boring lying abed without a thing to do but listen to your heart beat.” Archer's remarkably sharp brown eyes studied his face before sliding away to the cards in his hand. “One thing, my boy. I’d appreciate it if you could avoid scaring the females. They’re a young and flighty lot. Best avoid them.”
Good lord, did Miss Archer complain about my behavior? She didn’t seem the type to go running off in tears, but he had been almost cruel to her. He shifted in his bed, wishing he could throw off the hot, damp sheets. The room was sweltering despite the closed curtains. A trickle of perspiration ran down his side.
“Warning taken.”
Archer nodded. A half-smile flickered across his mouth, but his eyes held friendliness tinged with a hint of sadness in their depths. “Not so much a warning, lad, as a suggestion. Merely a suggestion.”
“You’re very much like Miss Archer.” He remembered the gleam in her brown eyes. Archer’s gaze was a little harder and a great deal more disconcerting at times, but the warmth was the same. They honestly didn’t seem to care who he was, or how much money he had.
And he liked them both. Although at times, Archer reminded him of a fine rapier, all slender grace built for quick light strokes and deadly thrusts. A weapon honed for honor—and revenge.
To what lengths would he go, to protect his ill-gotten gains?
With a graceful flick of the wrist, Archer dealt out the cards and studied his hand. “How odd. I never noticed the similarity. Most of the Archers have blue eyes. Her father certainly does.”
That’s all I need, to insinuate that Miss Archer is illegitimate. He gave up his fantasies and concentrated on his cards. “Oh, I see.”
“Shall we play for a small sum? Say, a pence a point? Just to make the game more interesting?”
“Very well.”
An hour later, he realized he was down nearly fifty pounds. He felt as if someone had spent the last half-hour pummeling him from head to toe.
Throwing his cards on the table, he watched Archer collect the discards. Archer wore a bland look of disinterest, but the corners of his mouth twitched with satisfaction.
He picked up his purse and handed it to him. “Take what I owe you.”
Grin broadening, Archer removed the money. “We’ll play again after dinner. You will win it back. Never fear.” He caught Chilton’s gaze and waggled his graying brows. “Oriana rubs her nose when she’s got a winning hand, and Helen taps her toes against the table leg. The faster she taps, the better her hand. Keep your wrists on the table—you’ll feel it.”
He couldn’t help laughing. “You’re incorrigible, you old devil. What would your nieces think to hear you telling me their weaknesses?”
“Why nothing, my lad. I told ‘em yours not two hours ago!” Archer replied with the mocking pretense of astonishment.
“What? What weaknesses?”
Archer chuckled and shook his head. “That would be telling.”
With that, Archer abandoned him, leaving him to ruminate over what bad habits he might have betrayed to Archer. And what chance remained of winning any of his money back.
He had barely leaned back against the pillows when loud, boisterous barking demanded his attention. Grabbing the discarded shirt, he pulled it on, shrugging uncomfortably at the tightness through the shoulders.
He eased out of bed, grateful that someone had left his—or rather Squidgy’s—cane by the headboard. Hobbling to the window taxed his strength. His legs trembled with weakness, and he barely made it across the floor. Gasping, he leaned against the wall in relief and waited for the dull throb in his thigh to ease. When he caught his breath, he pulled the curtain back and glanced outside.
A swirling pack of dogs in all colors surrounded Miss Archer. He could hear the high, fluting notes of her laughter spiraling upward amidst the barking as she picked up twigs and threw them. When the pack ran after the sticks, he caught sight of the white dog he had picked up on the road. It ran gamely with the others, but in the excitement, the other animals with all four legs intact toppled it. When it arose, another dog shouldered it aside and snapped a warning.
Tail drooping, the white dog edged away and watched for the moment. It appeared to be waiting for the opportunity to slip once more unnoticed into the pack. It wanted to belong.
He glanced away briefly, surprised by a surge of sympathy for the poor mongrel.
When the hounds grabbed the sticks and swerved back to Miss Archer, she clapped her hands. She called to them and the dogs bounded back to her. The white dog eagerly rejoined the pack, bringing up the rear.
The animals crowded around Miss Archer. She bent, stretching her arms out to rub the ears of as many dogs as she could reach. The white mongrel—Chilton’s dog—tried to get her attention, but it was rolled by a heavier, black dog with a white muzzle. The same dog that had pushed it away earlier, excluding it.
As his dog struggled to its feet, he felt his heart squeeze. Miss Archer pulled the animal to her and looped an arm around its neck, kissing the top of its head. The gesture sent such a rush of longing through him, that his breath caught in his throat, aching for that easy affection.
Miss Archer’s chestnut hair gleamed under a frothy lace cap, catching the sunshine as she petted and played with the dogs. She touched all of them, making sure she reassured them of her love.
Despite the actions of the other dogs, she paid special attention to Josephine. With surreptitious movements, she scratched the white mongrel’s head and snuck something out of her pocket to tuck into the dog’s mouth. The dog licked her hand before leaning adoringly against her knee.
He leaned against the window, his hands gripping the sill as he watched. He longed to be down there in the yard with nothing more on his mind than staying as close to Miss Archer as possible.
As he watched, his dog turned and snapped at the big, black hound. The hound bared its teeth, but Miss Archer called out something. It backed away. The three-legged mongrel leaned once more against her skirts, its pink tongue lolling out in a canine grin of satisfaction.
Unfamiliar, unwanted emotions stiffened his shoulders. He felt oddly jealous and excluded—abandoned in his barren room. Turning away from the window, he yanked a couple of packages off a narrow chest. He ripped the brown paper off, exposing various articles of male apparel, including a fawn pair of breeches.
With a long string of invectives, he sat on the edge of a chair and dressed. Drops of perspiration dribbled down the ends of his damp hair, increasing his irritation. He wiped a sleeve over his brow and concentrated on pulling on the clothing that seemed to resist him and stick against his damp skin.
More salty beads ran into his eyes, stinging and burning like his frustration. Temper flaring, he had to stop and take several breaths before he could finish buttoning his breeches. More-or-less dressed, he dragged himself upright with the help of the cane.
He wiped his face with a handkerchief. Stuffing the damp cloth into his pocket, he frowned at the beams of sunshine crossing the wooden floor of his room.
Why would anyone favor the sweltering, piercing light of day?
The heat increased his impatience and made the fire in his le
g rage fiercely. No wonder he had always preferred the soft, concealing darkness of night. That silky-blue time of coolness and mystery was his, when a man’s scarred face was softened and obscured by shadows. The world and everyone in it was more attractive in the wavering, indistinct light of candles. And all his pain could float further away with each glass of alcohol.
But Miss Archer, at least, was a woman who thrived in the golden light of day. Outside, her hair flared with gleaming highlights. Her skin glowed creamy white where the curve of her neck was displayed, framed in a simple square neckline, as she played with the dogs.
He would have to adjust to life under the sun, if only for a day or two. At least until he could get what he came for.
And for now, he couldn’t resist going outside.
When he got downstairs, he blundered around the back hallway, opening and shutting a series of doors until finally he found the doorway to the courtyard where he had seen Miss Archer and her pack of mongrels. He opened the door and stopped on the threshold to watch her brush off her skirts.
As he eased down the steps, she turned and moved toward the house.
“Oh!” she exclaimed when she nearly bumped into him. “Why are you out of bed?”
He knew he shouldn’t do it. He meant to apologize for his previous remarks, but he simply couldn’t resist.
Grinning, and knowing full well it was really more of a leer than a smile, he said, “You could help me back upstairs. To bed.”
She blushed, her skin damp and warm from the sunlight surrounding her. Catching his gaze, she wiped her hands more vigorously on her skirts. Her brown eyes flickered to his bare neck where he had left his shirt open, and he felt his grin widen as her flush deepened.
What was it about her that brought out the beast in him?
She pretended to ignore his response though her blush didn’t recede from her soft cheeks.
Glancing at the stables to her left, she asked, “Did your valet help you?”
“Valet?” He couldn't have been more surprised had she punched him in the stomach.
How long he had lain unconscious? Surely not long enough for Bottle to find him? That worthy man would never have allowed him to even consider thrusting a leg through the ill-fitting breeches now straining over his thighs.
Bottle couldn’t possibly be at The Orchards. Could he?
Miss Archer gave him a pitying glance. “Haven’t you ever had a valet before? You should have rung.”
When she moved as if to slip a supporting hand under his elbow, he scowled. He considered telling her that he was well used to the ministrations of a valet as well as myriad other servants. But he was afraid it would raise even more questions about his background.
If John Archer found out, it would arouse his suspicions. And he didn’t want Archer to find out his father was Lord Chichester. If Archer knew that, Archer might guess he was after the vowel Violet had lost.
No, as far as the Archers were concerned, he was just a common gambler. Rather like Archer himself.
At the sound of their voices, Josephine tore itself away from a playful argument with the large, black dog and threw itself in a frenzy of delight at his knees.
He nearly fell over with the impact, but he thrust the cane behind himself just in time to avoid falling on the steps. When he glanced at Miss Archer, he was surprised to see her face soften with pleasure as the dog danced around him, trying to lick his hand.
The longing in him deepened, twisting into something akin to desire. He bent to hide his expression and pet the dog, using it as a distraction.
It was absurdly gratifying to see the adulation in the animal’s greeting.
“Dogs are wonderful, aren’t they?” She stepped back to give the dog more room as it frisked over his feet. “Josephine loves you very much.” She glanced at him. Her brown eyes shone with laughter as she added, “Your dog—Josephine.”
“I have a vague recollection of her name,” he replied dryly.
“Well, I wanted to be quite clear.” Her voice bubbled with mirth. Apparently she had recovered very well from her previous embarrassment and wasn’t averse to bringing him down a notch or two.
“Sit, Josephine!” he commanded. The dog sat on his foot. It leaned against his knee and panted, its eyes fixed on his with an idiotic expression of adoration.
He felt simply...overwhelmed. When he caught Miss Archer’s gaze, his chest tightened.
Uncomfortable, he leaned on the cane to scratch the dog’s neck and back. The dog rolled over, waggling its feet in the air and drooling.
“Perhaps you ought to go inside, Mr. Dacy. Standing can’t be good for you. And Josephine may accompany you, if you like.”
Chilton agreed, feigning unconcern with an unduly harsh voice.
Miss Archer braced her hand under his elbow and waited while he straightened. Meeting her gaze, he studied her eyes, afraid of seeing pity in their depths. Her warm gaze was free of it. She studied him with a calm, somewhat expectant expression and simply waited for him to walk toward to the door.
Another wave of unwanted, damnable emotion choked him. He swallowed and thrust it aside. His convalescence was obviously weakening him mentally. It was time to get over his absurd sentimentality, or Miss Archer would find him weeping and clinging to her knees like one of her damned dogs.
At her prompting, he leaned against her, half hoping for the return of the heat he had recognized earlier in her brown eyes. Unfortunately, she merely shifted her hand to better support his weight and kept her gaze focused on the doorway.
Clinging threads of frustration slowly spun around him. He wanted her to look at him with desire, damn it. He longed to see that fire in her eyes again. Some emotion—any emotion—other than tired, meaningless responsibility.
Then she smiled, and the sun brightened around them. Glancing away, he wobbled helplessly beside her, stumbling up the steps.
“I don’t need help.” His mind finally cleared. He looked around and realized he was in the hallway.
He shrugged her off, embarrassed by his weakness.
“Very well,” she replied. “Josephine, come here.” The dog scrambled through the door before Miss Archer shut it behind them. “I’ll take Josephine to your room. We eat at seven, though it is hardly fashionable.”
He nodded as she gestured toward a double door on their right.
“The dining room is through there. And we have a library at the end of this hallway, to your left. Oh, I nearly forgot.” She patted her skirt. “This came for you this afternoon.”
She handed a letter to him. He fingered the thick paper and eyed the red wax seal. At least it wasn’t from his father.
“What is it?”
“A letter, I should imagine.”
“I mean, who is it from?”
“Oh, dear, I am sorry. I never think, do I? Shall I read it to you?” Pity shone in her eyes as she wrongly assumed he was illiterate.
“I can read the bloody thing! I just didn’t recognize the seal.”
“It’s an invitation from the squire. We also received one,” she replied in a patient voice.
Tearing the letter open, he read the brief lines. It requested his presence at a dinner being given in his honor three days from today, and the note was signed “Hugo Winkle.”
“Who is Hugo Winkle?”
“The local squire,” she answered in the same infuriatingly calm tone. “He is giving a dinner in your honor. This Friday, I believe.”
“Why the devil should he host a dinner in my honor? I don’t even know the man.”
“News travels on a fast horse in the country, I’m afraid. I am sure he heard we have a visitor, and he simply wishes to make your acquaintance. So many families have already departed for London that having a new face for a dinner party is highly prized.” She actually patted him on the wrist. He was sure she meant it to be comforting, but he found exceedingly annoying. She petted the dogs in precisely the same manner. “You should be on the mend very well
by then. You'll enjoy a night out.”
He barely kept from snarling as he balled the paper up and shoved it in his pocket. Then he morosely followed Miss Archer and his dog down the hallway. She made him feel like a dutiful little boy about twelve years of age. It made him want to do something very improper to her, in return.
He paused, watching Miss Archer mount the stairs in front of him. Her hips swayed gently with each step.
With a twisted grin, he wished the squire wasn’t the only one in the immediate vicinity who wanted to become better acquainted with him.
He really did.
Chapter Seven
Four of a Kind
That evening, Oriana stood at the top of the stairs, preparing to check with Cook regarding dinner, when her sister rushed up to her. She waited, hoping Helen had had the sense to leave Mr. Dacy quite alone.
“Oriana!” Helen puffed. “I wanted to talk to you—please!”
“Well, of course, dear. But I need to see to dinner—”
“Can't you spare just one moment?” her sister wheedled, gently tugging at her sleeve.
“Certainly. But just one,” she replied with a smile.
The two women slipped down the hallway, and Helen pulled her into her room, shutting the door behind them. Oriana surveyed the gaily furnished bedroom, adorned with pale yellow curtains and deep blue coverlet with gold trim on the bed. Matching cushions covered a chair placed close to the marble fireplace.
How well those two colors, blue and gold, became her sister. It reminded her of how utterly drab she was in her much mended pale yellow muslin dress with its brown silk sash. She couldn't even remember how old it was.
“What did you want, Helen?”
Helen nervously opened her wardrobe and pulled out her new bonnet. “I have been thinking, Oriana. I should not have purchased this with Mr. Dacy’s money. It was frightfully bad of me.”
“Is that all? But we already discussed this, puss, and it is quite all right. I have given Mr. Dacy a slip with the amount on it, already. And I will pay him back as soon as Mamma and Papa return.”
