A Basket of Wishes

by Rebecca Paisley

  He would have to take her home with him.

  Damn it all.

  He stepped toward her. Unsure as to whether she would allow him to take her to his home, he clasped her elbow and gave her a stern look. “I am Jourdian Amberville, duke of Heathcourte. I am taking you to my residence, and I will not tolerate a word of argument. You will be seen by a physician who will evaluate your condition and prescribe proper treatment. Since I am accountable for whatever injuries you have sustained, you need not concern yourself with the physician’s charges or any other expenditures related to your full recovery. Do you understand?”

  Splendor understood only one thing—that he was taking her to his home. “Aye, Jourdian,” she murmured through her smile. “I understand.”

  At her extreme breach of etiquette, he scowled. “I have not given you leave to address me thus. You will call me ‘Your Grace.’”

  “Aye, My Grace,” she replied, too happy to notice his frown of displeasure.

  “Not My Grace—Your Grace!”

  “What? But ’tis what I—”

  “No, it was not! You said—”

  “I did not realize you had an uncivil streak.”

  “Me? I’m not the one gallivanting around in this field without clothes, and you’re calling me uncivil?”

  “I refer to your character. You’ve an element of rudeness in your makeup that distresses me.”

  Disbelief and fury blazed through him. Not daring to speak, he jerked off his coat, draped it over her shoulders, then lifted her off the ground. Her slight weight astonished him anew. She was tall, her eyes level with his mouth, and yet he felt as though he held a small child in his arms.

  Not only did she suffer a head injury, but she was obviously starving, he realized. God only knew when she’d eaten last.

  And yet her skin glowed. He imagined he could still see tiny stars shimmering upon her. How odd that someone as unwell as she possessed such radiance about her.

  “You are taking me to your home now?” Splendor asked. Still too angry to speak, he merely glared at her, and, holding her fragile body within the curve of his right arm, he used his left arm to pull himself into the saddle.

  Just as he swung his leg over the horse’s back, Splendor saw that his foot was firmly encased within the hollow of the stirrup.

  The iron stirrup.

  She shrieked and pulled her legs into her chest so that her body formed a tight ball. Shaking with fright, she then lowered her arms and opened her hands. From the cups of her palms sprays of tiny silver stars fell over the stirrups.

  In the next moment, the stars faded and both stirrups dropped to the ground.

  Jourdian tensed, sitting as still as a frozen pillar. Finally, he glanced down. Total mystification enveloped him as he stared at his dangling feet.

  “My Grace?” Though Splendor knew his disbelief stemmed from the bit of magic she’d done, she could not bring herself to admit to her fairy powers. ‘You were about to take me to your home, were you not?”

  “The stirrups,” he whispered, still staring at his dangling feet. “They…they dropped…just dropped off, and yet the stirrup leathers are perfectly intact. I don’t understand how—”

  He had no time to finish his statement. Spurred on by a touch more of Splendor’s magic, Magnus took off at a full run toward the mansion, a sprinkling of silver stars glittering in his wake.

  Every thought in Jourdian’s mind vanished as he fought to stay mounted, a difficult task without benefit of stirrups. It was not until Magnus stopped before the manor that Jourdian was able to relax.

  What in God’s name had gotten into the stallion? he wondered. Magnus, though high spirited, had never behaved in such a manner. And how odd that the horse had gone to the house rather than the barns. Ordinarily the steed headed straight for the water and sweet feed he knew he’d be given after a long ride.

  Shaking his head, Jourdian tossed the reins to a servant, then noticed the parish vicar standing on the marble steps that led to the front door of the house. Jourdian guessed Reverend Shrewsbury had most likely come to collect a monetary contribution, a mission the man performed at least twice a month.

  Wonderful, Jourdian thought dismally. After all that had happened today, a sanctimonious sermon from the long-winded man about the merits of generosity was just what he needed. “Reverend,” he muttered in greeting.

  The vicar’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped wide open. “Your Grace!”

  The reverend’s shock confounded Jourdian until he realized what caused it. Not a little embarrassment caused him to grit his teeth so hard that his jaw began to ache. Grass and dirt clung to his hair and clothes, indisputable evidence that he’d been rolling around on the ground. And the wisp of a girl snuggled against his chest gave proof that he had not been cavorting in the meadow alone.

  He could only imagine what scandalous conclusions were assaulting Reverend Shrewsbury’s puritanical senses.

  “Who is that man, My Grace?” Splendor asked. “Why, he looks as though he just swallowed a bumblebee!”

  Jourdian sighed through his clenched teeth. He managed, however, to find some semblance of control…until he glanced down at the wiggling lass in his arms.

  His coat had slipped off her shoulders.

  She was naked again.

  In front of the vicar.

  Bloody hell.

  Chapter Four

  Jourdian fairly ripped the coat apart as he tried to cover the pale and perfect bosom that had captured Reverend Shrewsbury’s unwavering attention. After closing the garment over the girl’s breasts he thought he’d done reasonably well until he saw that the hem of the coat lay over her belly, thereby exposing the tops of her milky thighs. Not knowing what else to do, he slipped both arms beneath her, turned and lifted her toward his own chest, and prayed that all her sensual parts were now hidden.

  But his well-intended action merely presented her small white bottom to the vicar’s unflinching gaze. The man’s eyes were so wide now that Jourdian decided they would soon pop out of their sockets and shoot across the courtyard.

  His Grace remained speechless for a long moment, struggling to devise a logical explanation. But if indeed a shred of logic existed in Jourdian’s mind, it was too deeply submerged beneath mental chaos to surface.

  And such complete stupefaction was totally foreign to Jourdian Amberville. “The girl,” he mumbled, his gaze darting from the top of her head to the vicar’s face. “She— We— You— You misunderstand, Reverend. I saw a burst of silver light then a flash of white. I thought I was dead, but angels are not given to speaking falsehoods. Riding. I was riding through the meadow. The light and the flash of white… Lightning that I believe frightened my mount. He threw me, and I noticed stars. Hundreds of stars…”

  His chagrin deepened when he heard himself stumbling over the most tangled explanation he’d ever given in all his two and thirty years. He, a man always in strict control of his thoughts, actions, and words, could not devise a simple interpretation of what had happened in the meadow!

  “It’s quite simple, really,” he began again. “What happened…I saw stars and smelled wildflowers. November wildflowers, mind you, and they soon gave me to believe that I was either dead or caught fast in the throes of a dream-induced illusion. I don’t imagine anyone would have thought differently, such was the deceiving sense of reality of the happenstance. It was only when her swan, Delicious, appeared out of nowhere and pecked my ear that I realized the dream was no dream.”

  He looked around, on the ground and up into the sky, but saw no swan. He did see a black and white spotted hog, however. The animal was grunting and snorting as it waddled through the chrysanthemums that edged the driveway.

  Jourdian decided the animal belonged to one of his tenants. “I don’t see the swan, Reverend, but I assure you it swooped out of the sky and nipped my ear.”

  The vicar remained silent.

  But Jourdian noted that the man’s look of shock was beg
inning to give way to an expression of censure. The reverend’s erroneous speculations didn’t sit well with him, and in the next moment the haughty and masterful side of the duke of Heathcourte emerged. “I regret that I am otherwise occupied, Reverend, and unable to receive you this afternoon,” he declared in the ducal tone that brooked no dispute. “You will excuse me while I see to the girl’s welfare.”

  Dismissing the vicar from sight and mind, Jourdian lifted his copper-haired charge over the saddle and carefully lowered her to her feet. Glad when the coat fell over her bare body, he then began to dismount himself, but forgot that his saddle was missing its stirrups.

  For the second time in one afternoon, he fell off his horse and landed spread-eagled on the ground. A stream of choice profanities coursed through his mind, but not a one escaped. On the contrary, as if his fall from the saddle was in fact the newest and most fashionable means of dismounting among stylish members of the ton, he stood, patted Magnus’s neck, and swaggered toward the door of the manor.

  Adopting the same regal bearing, Splendor began to follow him, but stopped before the reverend. “I am here to give him joy,” she informed the man. “Pleasure beyond anything he has ever known.” With that, she continued toward the door and smiled brightly when Delicious—in the form of the black and white spotted hog—plodded up the steps beside her.

  Reverend Shrewsbury stayed just long enough to watch the disheveled duke of Heathcourte, the nearly naked girl, and the snorting hog enter the mansion before scurrying toward his carriage. As he drove away, he deliberated intently on the scene he’d just witnessed and soon came to the delightful conclusion that keeping such a tale to himself would be a grave offense in the eyes of the Almighty. After all, withholding the truth was essentially the same as lying.

  And as a man of God he was forbidden to indulge in the grave sin of deceit.

  Absolutely forbidden.

  Ulmstead had never seen the duke with as much as a hair out of place, but he uttered not a word about His Grace’s soiled and disordered appearance. Nor did he comment on the girl who accompanied Lord Amberville into the manor, a girl whose bare legs were the exact shade of the white marble flooring in the entryway.

  But the Heathcourte butler took extreme and immediate exception to the oinking hog that trailed behind the lass. The crude barnyard animal would surely upset Pharaoh’s delicate sensibilities, which was something every Heathcourte servant struggled to prevent.

  Leaving the door open, he bent and tried to swat the hairy creature outside. “Go on with you now, you waddling ton of sausage! Out I say!”

  The man’s assault on her pet so horrified Splendor, that with a quick handful of stars she caused Delicious to vanish.

  Jourdian turned around in time to see his butler swatting at thin air. The sight bewildered him, for Ulmstead was a man who would prefer being pitched into boiling oil than to allow his utterly proper demeanor to slip. “Ulmstead, might I ask what you are doing?”

  Ulmstead dropped his arms to his sides and stared at the spot on the floor where the hog had stood. Nothing existed there now but a spot of mud.

  And one tiny twinkle of light, which vanished as soon as he saw it.

  The butler leaned against the wall for support and raised his hand to his shiny bald head. “Sausage,” he whispered. “One second here, one second gone. Where—where did it go?”

  “Sausage?” Jourdian asked.

  “’Twould seem that your friend, Ulmstead, is under a bit of strain, My Grace,” Splendor tried to explain, feeling bad that her magic had caused the poor man such distress. To make amends, she decided to do something kind for him.

  Perhaps she would give him some hair. That would be a kind gesture. As soon as she was settled, she would gift the bald man with hair so thick that he would dance with joy over his dream come true.

  Of course, she would first have to find someone deserving of Ulmstead’s baldness, for she couldn’t take away a human affliction without knowing where to transfer it.

  Smiling, she reached out and patted Ulmstead’s shoulder.

  Her touch sent a stream of warmth through the butler’s bony frame. He turned and looked into lavender eyes so incredibly beautiful that he forgot all about the disappearance of the hog. “Please forgive my lack of solicitude, miss,” he said, returning her shining smile. “May I take your coat?”

  “No!” Jourdian thundered. “She’s wearing naught but the coat!”

  “Oh!” The butler jerked his arms back to his sides. “Oh, yes! Oh, forgive me, miss! Oh, my!”

  All the shouting brought the housekeeper, Mrs. Frawley, scurrying into the entryway. The rotund woman took one look at the deeply flustered butler, the unkempt duke, and the barely clad girl, and gasped so deeply that a button popped off the front of her stiffly starched gown.

  The button skimmed across the marble floor and stopped in front of Splendor’s foot. Without looking down, she opened her hand, wished the button into her palm, and then closed her fingers around it.

  “Mrs. Frawley,” Jourdian said to the astonished housekeeper, “you will calm yourself this instant and escort this young woman to the yellow chambers. Find clothing for her and see to it that she’s fed. And as for you, Ulmstead, summon Dr. Osbourne.” With that, he turned and started for the long and winding staircase.

  Splendor watched him climb the steps. “I do not wish to go to the yellow chambers, My Grace. I prefer to go with you.”

  Jourdian stopped halfway up the staircase. Had he heard her correctly? “What—did—you—say?” he asked, emphasizing each of his words.

  Staring up at him, Splendor knew in her heart that his terrible scowl could turn a hot sunbeam into an icicle. She couldn’t fathom what she’d done to earn such a frown, and it was only with the greatest of effort that she managed not to escape into her misty sanctuary. “I said I prefer to go with you.”

  There it was again, Jourdian mused. Her air of authority. He’d noticed it in the meadow, and he was seeing it again now.

  He didn’t like it in the least. “While you remain in my house you will concern yourself with my preferences, not your own. And I prefer that you cooperate with my servants, who follow my instructions in a manner that you would do well to imitate.”

  Before Splendor could argue further, he vanished up the stairs. It seemed to her that he disappeared faster than Delicious had.

  Delicious. Now where had she put that animal? Sweet everlasting, she’d been so frantic over protecting him from Ulmstead’s swatting hands that she couldn’t remember where she’d sent him!

  “There now, my dear,” Mrs. Frawley clucked upon seeing the lass’s distressed expression. She moved toward the girl, her shock having given way to pity over the poor lass’s lack of clothing and gaunt appearance. Obviously the copper-haired waif had met with some unfortunate occurrence, and the fact that the duke had brought her into his home indicated that his lordship felt an obligation to assist her.

  Lord Amberville concerning himself with the needs of a female! Imagine that!

  “Delicious,” Splendor murmured when the plump woman arrived at her side.

  “Delicious? Yes, yes, you’ll have a delicious meal in just a bit. Mrs. Kearney is the Heathcourte cook, and a wonderful cook she is, too.”

  Splendor saw that the woman’s warm brown eyes sparkled with kindness, and felt sure that the lady would help her. “Take me to My Grace at once. ’Tis supremely important that I speak to him.”

  Mrs. Frawley clasped her hands together in front of her ample bosom. The girl was certainly stubborn, she thought. After having received express orders from Lord Amberville to follow his instructions, she remained adamant over following her own wishes.

  Oh, but wasn’t this a delightful bit of excitement!

  “You might see his lordship later, my dear.”

  “His lordship?”

  “His Grace, the duke.”

  Splendor couldn’t understand. “His Grace? But I thought he was My Grace. Is h
e Our Grace?”

  “When speaking to him, he’s Your Grace. When speaking of him, he’s… Oh, we’ll talk about that later. I am Mrs. Edna Frawley. Come with me, and we’ll have you clothed, tucked into bed, and fed that delicious meal straightaway. Goodness me, poppet, you’re nothing but skin and bones! Follow me, there’s a pretty girl, now.” Holding her hand over the gaping hole on the front of her gown, she started for the staircase.

  Splendor followed, deciding the plump woman’s thoughtfulness deserved to be repaid. She looked down at the button she still held in her palm.

  And moments later, when Mrs. Frawley reached the upper landing of the staircase and noticed the neatly replaced button on the bodice of her dress, she fainted dead away.

  Dr. Osbourne examined both Mrs. Frawley and the girl Lord Amberville had brought to the manor house. “I can find nothing wrong with your housekeeper,” he said when he joined His Grace in the duke’s immaculate and impeccably furnished office. “She confessed to no physical malady, but only muttered something about a button. I allowed her to speak to her maids, and then gave her a sleeping draught. She should be fine by morning.”

  “A button,” Jourdian repeated. Sitting behind his desk, he tapped a pencil upon a neat stack of business papers. “And the girl?”

  “I failed to find a single bruise or other injury on her person, which leads me to believe that you did not run over her in the meadow.”

  Jourdian leaned over the massive desk. “I told you that after I fell off my horse, I discovered the girl on top of me. What do you think she did? Fall out of the sky?”

  The doctor took off his spectacles and scratched the back of his neck. “I have no explanation. And she did not give me any further information about herself than she gave you, Your Grace. Her poor health is the sole thing of which I am certain. I don’t believe I have ever seen such frailty in all my years as a physician.”