Heiress Gone Wild

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  She broke off, frowning, leaning forward to study Marjorie’s face. “Your lips are chapped and a little red.”

  “Are they?” She pressed her finger to her mouth, wincing as she felt the sting of windburn.

  “You ought to put some zinc oxide paste on it. I’ve got some below, if you want it. It’s in the little desk at the bottom of the stairs.”

  Marjorie touched her mouth again and decided the zinc oxide was a good idea. “Pour me some tea, would you, Clara?” she asked over her shoulder as she walked to the cabin. Shoving the door open, she went inside and went below deck, but though she found the desk Clara had mentioned at once, the lip salve proved elusive. She searched all three drawers of the desk, but she was finally forced to concede defeat.

  She shut the bottom drawer, but as she straightened, she realized she wasn’t alone down here. Behind her, the door to one of the bedrooms suddenly opened, and as she turned around, the man who had been avoiding her all day came out, his hair damp and his dark blue reefer jacket in his hand.

  He stopped in his tracks at the sight of her, and the dismayed expression on his face made her want to sink into the teak floor beneath her feet.

  “I came down for zinc oxide, but I can’t seem to find it,” she said, then stopped, realizing she didn’t owe him any explanations.

  “I have some.” He slid on his jacket, then reached into one of its pockets and pulled out a small glass jar. Stepping forward, he held it out to her.

  “Thank you.” Taking it from his outstretched hand, she unscrewed the lid and turned toward the mirror bolted to the wall above the desk. But before she could apply some of the thick white paste to her lips, she saw his face in the mirror, and once again, she caught a glimpse of what she’d seen at Claridge’s three weeks earlier.

  She froze, the jar and the lid in her fingers. “What are you thinking when you look at me like that?” she whispered.

  At once, he looked away. “I’d better get on,” he said, and moved as if to leave.

  “Wait,” she said, turning around, desperate for some excuse to make him stay. She wanted to ask him what was different, what had changed between them, what was wrong, but as she looked into his face again, the fire in his tawny eyes was gone, and his countenance was so wooden, so stiff, that her question stuck in her throat, and she lost her nerve. “You forgot this.”

  She moved to dip her finger in the jar to take a little of the salve before giving it back, but his voice stopped her.

  “Keep it,” he said and once again started to step around her.

  The curtness of his voice proved one snub too many for Marjorie.

  “I don’t want it!” she cried, too stung for even pride to come to her rescue. She screwed the lid back on, then grabbed his hand and slapped the tiny jar into his palm. “What I want to know is why you are treating me like a stranger. What have I done to deserve it?”

  He stiffened, his fingers tightening into a fist around the jar. Slowly, with deliberate care, he pulled his hand from her grasp. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do,” she said, confirmed in that opinion when he shifted his weight, looking uneasy. “That afternoon when we walked to Claridge’s for tea, it was so lovely. We were talking and laughing—like friends, you know, but then . . .”

  Something flickered in the stiff lines of his face, a trace of emotion. “That’s when everything changed,” she went on, pushing. “Ever since tea that day, it’s as if there’s this wall between us, and I don’t know how it got there. And today, you’re avoiding me altogether, ducking away every time I come within ten feet of you. Did I offend you by asking about the paper?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then maybe you just find the conversation of every single other person on board more appealing than mine? Whatever the reason,” she said before he could answer, “it’s clear something’s gone wrong between us, and it—”

  She stopped, for her pride just couldn’t allow her to make the humiliating admission that she was hurt. “I thought we were friends,” she said instead.

  “So we are. Now, I must—”

  “You make that assurance with such conviction,” she interrupted as he turned his back, “and yet, somehow . . .” She paused again, then whispered, “I don’t believe you.”

  He stopped, one foot on the stairs, his back stiff, his shoulders rigid. “God have mercy,” he muttered, and then, suddenly, he turned, his arm catching her around the waist.

  He pulled her hard against him, and the jar of lip salve dropped from his fingers as his other arm wrapped around her shoulders. He tilted his head, ducking beneath her hat brim, and then, his mouth was on hers, hot and fierce, but so tender that her lips parted at once in willing accord.

  He groaned, and his tongue entered her mouth, tasting deeply of her. Overwhelmed, Marjorie closed her eyes, but at once, everything began to spin. Thinking to steady herself in the maelstrom, she moved to slide her arms up around his neck, but then, his hands came up between them, closing over her wrists. With another groan, he pulled her hands down and broke the kiss. He pulled back, his breathing hot and quick against her cheek, and when she opened her eyes, she found his blazing with all their color and light.

  “Being friends with you is killing me,” he muttered. “For God’s sake, don’t you understand? It’s killing me by inches.”

  Abruptly, he grabbed her arms, shoved her back, and let her go. He turned away, and this time, he did leave, going up the stairs without another word or a backward glance, leaving Marjorie staring after him. Men, she thought, shaking her head, were completely inexplicable.

  Had the Mary Louisa still been on a more remote part of the Thames, Jonathan might very well have dived overboard and swam for shore.

  After weeks of fighting and suppressing desire, he’d finally given in. He’d allowed himself one hour of wild sexual fantasy about his ward, and he’d been paying for it ever since. Instead of being a relief, that afternoon in Claridge’s tearoom had made his agony even more acute, and during the weeks that had followed, being in her company had become an almost unbearable torture.

  Now, after an entire day of evading her—a task that had required considerable ingenuity on his part—he’d been forced to take refuge below deck, where he’d swallowed two fingers of whiskey, dunked his head in a basin of cold water, and reminded himself at least twenty-seven times of things like duty and responsibility and gentlemanly conduct.

  He’d barely returned to a sane state of mind, however, before she’d come below and he’d ruined all his own good work by hauling off and kissing her. After that scorching hot disaster, getting away by swimming for shore began to seem his only alternative.

  Unfortunately for Jonathan, the yacht was well past Battersea Park when he emerged on deck, so even if he’d wanted to employ such desperate means of escape, there were far too many ships on the river to attempt it.

  As it was, Jonathan had no choice but to do what he’d been doing for the past several weeks. He endured. He suppressed any naughty thoughts about her the moment they entered his head. He reminisced about schooldays at Winchester with Paul and kept Hetty entertained with tales of her brother’s boyhood misdeeds. He mingled, he mixed, he told stories of his life in America, and he smiled so much that by the time they reached Queen’s Wharf, his jaw ached.

  In the days that followed the water party, he took steps to ensure that what happened on the Mary Louisa could not happen again. Sending Irene’s plans for his social calendar to perdition, he stayed away from the house on Upper Brook Street and its voluptuous, ginger-haired guest as much as possible.

  Most men in his situation, he supposed, would have turned to another woman to relieve the agony, but to Jonathan, such a course held no appeal. He’d never been one for the brothels. Even on the American frontier, where prostitutes were an unmarried man’s only viable choice, he’d never had much taste for them, and he’d seldom sought their company. Besides, he knew any relief he might find in
the arms of another woman would be purely physical and also temporary, for Marjorie was the only woman he wanted. He joined a gymnasium instead and discovered that a punching bag and fencing foil were decent, if not fully effective, physical outlets for his frustration.

  He also sought other distractions. He looked up old friends from schooldays. He handled the various business matters his stop in London had required. He took cold baths and went for long walks.

  Following Rex’s advice, he applied to be a member of the Travellers Club, and with Torquil’s influence, Rex’s endorsement, and the recommendations of various schoolfellows with whom he’d become reacquainted, he was shuffled to the top of the waiting list. In the meantime, he was able to attend as a guest, and in order to avoid Upper Brook Street, he took advantage of both his brothers-in-law in that regard as often as possible.

  “You realize your sisters are becoming aggravated with us,” the duke told him as they met Rex there for drinks one night in late July. “They know you’re ducking society, and the fact that we’re helping you do so is not sitting well with them.”

  “It’s just a few more weeks,” Jonathan said, and took a sip of whiskey. “Thank God.”

  Henry chuckled. “Dear Lady Truelove,” he said, looking at Rex, “the women in our lives are insisting we mingle in society, but after all these weeks of doing the season, we are exhausted, and we just want some peace. How can we make our wives understand that nights at the club are vital to our masculine health and well-being? Signed, Bored with Balls in Belgravia.”

  Jonathan and Rex both laughed, not only at the duke’s double entendre, but also at the fact that he was usually far too proper a chap to make a naughty joke like that.

  “Lady Truelove,” Rex said after a moment, giving his brother-in-law a look of mock reproof, “would never advise a man to go to his club instead of his home. Unless,” he added with a grin, “he’s got a very good reason.”

  “Which is what?” Henry asked. “Best if we get that story straight, gentlemen, before we leave here.”

  “I’ve already arranged for that.” Rex glanced past the duke’s shoulder and his grin widened. “In fact, our reason for being here tonight just walked through the door. The Marquess of Kayne has arrived.”

  Jonathan, who didn’t know the Marquess of Kayne or anything about him whatsoever, did not understand the significance of the man’s arrival, but Henry seemed to do so.

  “Aha,” the duke said with a nod and a discreet glance over his shoulder. “I see where your mind is heading, Rex. You are a clever devil.”

  “Why, thank you,” Rex murmured, brushing a speck of dust from his lapel, donning a show of modesty. “I do my best.” Leaning closer to Jonathan, he went on, “Kayne is someone you need to meet, which is why I’ve asked him to join us this evening. And, given what I’ve told him about you, he very much wants to make your acquaintance.”

  Jonathan had no opportunity to reply before a tall, dark-haired man paused by their table, bringing all three of them to their feet.

  “Torquil,” the marquess greeted. “Galbraith. Good to see you both. It’s been a while.”

  “We haven’t seen much of you this season, Phillip,” Henry commented. “Not since your annual May Day charity ball.”

  “I’ve been busy down in Hampshire, so my wife and I have done very little this year. I’ve only been coming up for the Lords.”

  “Would you allow me to introduce my brother-in-law, Jonathan Deverill?” Henry asked. “Jonathan, the Marquess of Kayne.”

  If this man truly was eager to meet Jonathan, he didn’t show it. A pair of cool blue eyes flicked over him in polite, impersonal fashion, and his handshake, though firm, was brief. “Mr. Deverill.”

  Henry inquired if the other man had yet dined, and upon learning he had not, an invitation to join them was given, an invitation the marquess accepted.

  “How’s the shipping business these days, Phillip?” Rex asked after they had ordered joints of beef and bottles of claret and settled back in their chairs. “Lord Kayne is a very forward-thinking peer,” he explained to Jonathan. “He got into industry early on.”

  “Hawthorne Shipping was my father’s doing, not mine,” the marquess said. “Though I admit, I’d have done something if he had not. Any peer that still depends on land rents for his income isn’t just a snob, he’s a fool.”

  That piqued Jonathan’s interest at once. “What does Hawthorne Shipping do?” he asked. “Import and export?”

  The marquess shook his head. “We build transatlantic steamships, both in Liverpool and in Southampton.”

  “Indeed? Cargo or passenger?”

  “Cargo. I had—” He broke off, shooting an inquiring glance at Rex that did not escape Jonathan’s notice. Rex must have nodded, for Kayne continued, “I should like to expand into building passenger liners as well.”

  Hence the purpose of this meeting. The man needed capital. “You wish to manufacture and sell passenger liners to Cunard, White Star, and—” He broke off in surprise as Kayne shook his head.

  “That’s an option, certainly, but it’s not the plan I’d like to implement.” Those cool blue eyes met Jonathan’s, a hard, shrewd glint in their depths. “I prefer to think bigger.”

  Jonathan was intrigued. “You don’t want to build for them,” he said, feeling his interest rise as he appreciated the other man’s true vision. “You want to compete with them. A bold strategy,” he added as the other man nodded.

  “Yes,” the marquess said simply. “It is.”

  He paused for a swallow of whiskey, then went on, “My partner was to be my brother’s American father-in-law, Colonel Dutton, and my brother was to assist me with the venture. Unfortunately, Dutton lost a packet in the last Wall Street crash, so we had to scrap the plan, and my brother took up a diplomatic post with the British embassy in Washington.”

  “But you still want to do it?”

  “Yes. Having already spent several years on this project and invested a small fortune, I do not want to abandon it altogether.”

  “So, you need investors to take Dutton’s place. Have you arranged for any as yet?”

  “Not yet,” Kayne admitted. “I’ve scarcely begun to look.”

  “That,” Rex interjected, “is where you come in, dear fellow.”

  Jonathan considered. “I like the idea,” he said after a moment, “but to compete head-on with the existing companies, you’ll have to establish ports and routes and gain the moorings.”

  “My brother had already begun that process, making arrangements with both Ostend and New York before he left for Washington. And I am due to meet with moorings officials in Gibraltar next month to continue what he started. But if I can’t find capital, it will all be for naught.”

  “You’ve piqued my interest, Lord Kayne,” Jonathan said and meant it. “It always interests me to meet men of vision. Most men think too small. Send your prospectus to me at Upper Brook Street. I will look it over, and if I like what I see, we can talk further.”

  At that moment, their meal arrived, and talk of business was abandoned. Afterward, Kayne suggested bridge, and though Henry and Rex were obligated to refuse, having social engagements to attend that evening, Jonathan was happy to accept the marquess’s invitation, and if the money the two men earned as bridge partners that evening was any indication, a joint venture between them would prove highly profitable.

  By the time Jonathan returned to the house on Upper Brook Street, it was well past midnight, and the door had already been latched, but since Irene had given him a key, he was able to let himself in.

  The house was dark and silent, indicating that everyone, including the servants, had gone to bed. He started up the stairs, thinking to do the same, but on the first-floor landing, he paused, noticing light spilling into the corridor from the drawing room.

  A lamp or gas jet left unattended could be dangerous. Rather surprised that one of Torquil’s servants could be so careless, he went down the corridor, think
ing to put the light out before going to bed, but when he entered the drawing room, he found that Torquil’s servants had not been careless at all.

  Through the opened double doors that led into the library, he could see Marjorie sitting on the floor, an opened trunk in front of her, a trunk he recognized, for he’d been the one to fill it with her father’s things and send it to White Plains. Following the instructions in his telegram, Mrs. Forsyte had shipped it here.

  Marjorie didn’t seem to notice him in the doorway. Her head was bent, the long, loose braid of her hair falling across one shoulder and over her breast, the soft white fabric of her nightdress billowing around, making it seem as if she was sitting on a cloud.

  He started toward her, but she didn’t even look up, and as he approached the library, he could see over the top of the open trunk that she was reading a letter, a letter on paper of an unmistakable robin’s egg blue.

  He stopped, staring at it, his own mind realizing for the first time the deeper implications of the information it contained. And when she spoke, he knew she had realized those implications, too.

  “He was in New York,” she said, letting the letter fall into her lap. She looked up, and in her big brown eyes, he could see shock and pain. “Three years after he left me at Mrs. Forsyte’s, he came back to New York, but it wasn’t to see me.”

  Her face twisted, went awry, and his chest tightened in response, her pain squeezing him like a vise. When a tear slid down her cheek, he felt it burn him like acid.

  “He came all the way from Idaho. He was an hour away from me by train. One hour. And he did not come to see me.”

  Jonathan couldn’t stand it. He started forward again, but he’d only taken a few steps before remembering what had happened the last time he’d found himself alone with her.

  He stopped again, fully aware of her vulnerable state and his own. He reminded himself of the reasons why he ought to turn around right now and walk out, but it did no good. He could not leave her, not like this.

  Taking a deep breath, praying for fortitude, Jonathan walked into the library.