“Our batty great-aunt finally went and died.” Barton’s voice filled with glee. “Turns out, the old crone had hoarded loads of funds. She left it all to the girl. Over sixty-thousand pounds.”
“Good God.” Nathanial closed his gaping mouth and lowered the towel. Sixty-thousand pounds? A considerable sum, even for him. “And your family hadn’t a clue the old girl was sitting on all that?”
Barton shrugged out of his vest and tossed the red brocade garment onto the bench. “Not a one, or I would have been all over the Continent with her, escorting her to every dreary foreign gala.” He grimaced. “An avid traveler, you see.”
A bit of exposure to foreign ways would likely improve Charlie Barton, but it wasn’t Nathanial’s place to voice that observation. “So, the drab daughter of your mother’s cousin?”
“I’m headed home tomorrow to secure her hand in marriage before she, or anyone else, can discover the funds exist.” Barton’s expression was reminiscent of a child who’d stolen a tray of cakes and hadn’t suffered a sick gut from devouring the rich plunder. He took up his foil.
Nathanial’s eyebrows shot up again. “No one told the girl?”
Barton shook his head as he strode toward the center of the room. “Gads no. If she finds out she’s an heiress, it will be that much harder to woo her. The money’s in a trust ‘til she’s twenty-one or weds. Even though she’s his ward, my father cannot get the funds, but neither can she, so why bring it up?”
Barton’s back to him, Nathanial shook his head. He tamped down his aversion to the other man’s plan and shrugged shoulders gone suddenly tense. “You’re really going to saddle yourself with some, as you put it, drab child, for the sake of sixty-thousand pounds?” Nathanial took his place before Barton. He raised his weapon in salute.
Barton snorted and saluted back. “Only you would even ask. You may have more money than you can spend in this lifetime, but most men would cut off their right hand for sixty-thousand pounds. Now, en garde.”
Barton lunged forward, forgoing squaring off. Nathanial dodge back. He slapped his foil across in a parry. He parried several more blows while he mulled over Barton’s words.
“I suppose she could do worse than a man she’s known for fourteen years,” Nathanial finally temporized, voice raised to be heard over the grating ring of parrying foils. He wouldn’t overstep the bounds of civility and voice his distaste, but entangling the poor creature before she knew her new status seemed low. “You’re certain you want her? The wrong wife can make a man’s life hell.” Like his father’s life before his somewhat suspicious death and the subsequent departure of Nathanial’s mother to Italy.
“Oh, she’s always been a pet.” Barton launched into a more vigorous round of attacks, exerting himself somewhat foolishly in his enthusiasm. “Docile. Meek as a mouse. Dotes on me, too. There’s much to be said for a girl who thinks the sun rises at your behest.”
Nathanial fell back. He circled away, happy to parry while Barton squandered his somewhat frantic energy. The greater struggle—not to grimace at the picture Barton painted—Nathanial narrowly won. What sort of poor, sad creature would dote on Charlie Barton? An entertaining drinking companion, competent billiards partner and better fencer than most of their fellow students, Barton was also a bit thick and thoroughly self-absorbed.
Barton made a wild swing. Nathanial danced away. A victorious grin on his face, Barton charged after.
“In all honesty, I do not anticipate any trouble securing her hand.” Barton’s words came out on a pant. “I should be wedded and back here in a week.” Greased hair jerked loose to plaster against his forehead. He lunged.
Nathanial parried the strike. “Are we fencing to three hits or five?”
“How about first blood?” Barton dove forward.
Nathanial parried the lightning quick blow, the tip of Barton’s foil a mere inch from his chest. He didn’t know if Barton had his second wind, or if his fatigue had been a ruse, but the attacks came fast, hard on the heels of each parry Nathanial mustered.
They fenced in silence, too focused on the match for banter. Nathanial felt a moment’s panic, but then Barton’s attacks began to slow. His breath turned ragged. Sweat mingled with hair oil to slick his face.
As Barton tired, Nathanial recalled his mission for Stirling. He should use Barton’s impending nuptials as an excuse to visit his friend’s country seat, but the request stuck in Nathanial’s throat. He didn’t want to bear witness to the fruition of Barton’s underhanded plan.
“Good God, man, are you going to retreat all afternoon?” Barton asked. “This is my last night in town before I head home to marry. I don’t mean to spend the entire evening fencing with you.”
Nathanial cocked an eyebrow and trust his foil into the center of Barton’s chest.
Barton looked down. He gaped at the capped blade prodding him, right over his heart. “You were toying with me.” He lowered his foil, his grimace rueful. “And here I thought I almost had you, once or twice.”
Nathanial shrugged. “You did. I was letting you wear yourself out.”
Never a sore loser, Barton shrugged, then turned to head for the bench. “Good thing we didn’t put money on it,” he called over his shoulder.
Nathanial joined Barton as he racked his foil, then reached for a clean towel. “I would never have agreed to a wager, anyhow.”
Barton shook his head. “That’s right, you gave up wagering.”
Nathanial ignored Barton’s mocking tone. He needed a way to get invited out to the country. Rebuking Barton’s jibes wouldn’t facilitate the offer. He should have let Barton win. Wining made a man magnanimous.
“And all for some silly wager with the duke,” Barton continued. He shook his head, expression mournful. “It’s a right shame. A man as wealthy as you can afford to gamble some of his funds away in the name of staving off boredom. As I’ll be able to do, soon enough.” With a grin, he tossed his towel in the general direction of the collection basket, then reached for his red brocade vest. He lifted the garment to the audible crinkle of the letter to which he’d earlier alluded. He shot a narrow-eyed look at Nathanial. “Speaking of boredom, there’s a splendid fox hunt about to take place back home. You might enjoy it.”
Nathanial raised his eyebrows, startled to have his wish proffered. “I might?” he managed in an attempt to sound casual.
Barton grinned. “And my sister would enjoy meeting you.”
Nathanial tossed his towel after Barton’s. “Your sister? Another dewy-eyed miss?”
“Well, she’s young enough. Eighteen. I wouldn’t call her dewy-eyed, though. Not Maggie. Not if you want to avoid a tongue-lashing.”
“She sounds lovely,” Nathanial lied. He suppressed his eagerness. He didn’t want Barton to know he sought an invitation. Or worse, to think him excited about the prospect of meeting Barton’s sister.
Barton chuckled. “Come on, you will love the hunt, and Maggie’s an entertaining lass. Your sort, I’d even venture.”
“Young, unwed misses are never my sort.”
“No one’s asking you to marry her,” Barton pressed. “She’ll have at me if I don’t bring home someone to amuse her, and you’re one of the few men I can trust not to steal my heiress from me.”
“I thought you said the drab little thing adores you.”
Barton’s smug grin turned Nathanial’s stomach. “Oh, she does, and you’re going to enjoy the hunt, and amuse my sister. Keeping me on Maggie’s good side is the least you can do after trouncing me so thoroughly.”
“Oh, very well, I shall endeavor to entertain your sister.” Nathanial had to suppress his own grin.
“Splendid.” Barton slapped Nathanial on the shoulder and set to reassembling his wardrobe.
Chapter Five
Standing before the mirror in the guestroom, Rebecca ran a hand down her side. She marveled at the smooth fabric of her newly made-over gown. Her gaze settled on her décolletage and the cheeks in the mirror turned
pink as her face heated. The strip of lace she’d sewn along the neckline did little to assuage her discomfiture. When Missus Barton last wore the dress, a vague memory of years ago, Rebecca didn’t recall being scandalized, but wearing the gown seemed quite different.
“I am simply not accustomed to evening wear,” she murmured into the silence of the luxurious chamber. She frowned at her image, then tugged down the puffed sleeves to hide bruises left by Missus Barton’s pinching fingers.
Satisfied with the sleeves, she raised a hand to her hair. Earlier, Maggie had done a truly marvelous job curling and arranging the tresses. She’d even exercised restraint, voicing only one comparison of Rebecca’s locks to muddy straw. Rebecca couldn’t recall ever spending so much time with Maggie when not doing something for her cousin. To top off Maggie’s efforts with her hair, she’d loaned Rebecca a set of gem-studded pins.
Unfortunately, Rebecca could only find a place for one, the gleaming jewels ostentatious where they nestled in her brown locks. Wherever she tried the second, it seemed too much. She frowned at the extra pin where it rested on her palm. If she didn’t wear it, Maggie would be insulted…if she noticed.
Frustrated with her attempts to place the hairpin, Rebecca left off studying her reflection to take in the room. A massive four-poster bed covered over with a gold-stitched duvet dominated the chamber, decorated predominantly in red, like the other ornate rooms in the home. The carpet, so thick she could curl her toes into the nap right through her thin-soled slippers, spanned most of the floor. A warm fire crackled in the grate. The floral gold and crimson window curtains were thick enough to block out all traces of daylight, but she’d tied them back after sneaking in.
Rebecca would have preferred soft blues, sage greens and creams, but that didn’t stop her from loving the room, or harboring mild pique. Soon Charlie would arrive. She looked forward to seeing him, overjoyed he planned to remain the entire week leading up to the hunt, but the thought of the guestroom being occupied aggrieved her. Her sanctuary, along with the only mirror she had unrestricted access to, would be given over to a stranger. A Mister Kensley, Charlie’s message said. A school friend of Charlie’s and the reason a fire blazed in a generally unused room.
Rebecca didn’t read the gossip columns. She had no notion who Mister Kensley was, but Maggie had squealed in delight at the news and proclaimed the man worth twelve thousand a year. Missus Barton’s eyes had lit up like Yuletide candles. Rebecca didn’t give one wit about Mister Kensley’s worth. Now she would have nowhere to go save her cramped, freezing, windowless cubby in the attic.
As if summoned by the memory of her squeal, Maggie’s cry of delight echoed up from the front parlor and through the closed guestroom door. Hairpin clutched in her hand, Rebecca hurried to the window. A carriage rumbled up the drive. Stately and black lacquered, the splendid conveyance and matched team were made faintly sinister by the red glow of the setting sun.
A second, smaller carriage followed, nearly as fine as the first, but undoubtedly carried servants. Footmen mounted on two fine steeds, their livery alike to the drivers’, brought up the rear. Joy shot through Rebecca as she recognized Charlie’s stallion, a high-strung bay named Falcon, but a frown quickly chased away her elation.
She wished Charlie wouldn’t insist on a stallion. He’d already injured two before Falcon. Sorrow settled on her as she recalled both beasts, brought down by Charlie’s lack of horsemanship and their own unruly temperaments. She would never criticize Charlie, but she wished he would realize that riding a stallion proved nothing, except that he didn’t know how to choose a horse suited to him.
Irrepressibly, her gaze moved from Charlie’s mount to the second. Her sorrow gave way to appreciation as she took in the elegant, shimmering gray. Taller than Falcon, the gray had intelligent, calm eyes, but a sleek form that bespoke of lightning speed.
The lead carriage drew to a halt below. One of Mister Barton’s footmen approached to open the door. Rebecca’s heart took up a happy rhythm as Charlie alighted, hat shoved low over his brown hair. She wondered if he still oiled his locks, a habit he’d picked up at university. One she didn’t care for.
Look up, she silently pleaded. Look up and see me, Charlie. Give me some sign you feel the same joy coming home to me as I feel setting eyes on you.
Charlie didn’t look up. She could make out his voice, but not his words, as he strode toward the door and out of sight below her. Rebecca sighed. She brought her gaze back to the carriage.
A pair of piercing green eyes regarded her, set in a face carved of hard plains. Unruly midnight locks curled about the edges of a top hat that seemed hardly able to contain them.
Caught spying, a hand shot to her lips. She fumbled with the curtain ties, unable to pull her gaze away. A charcoal eyebrow winged upward. His lips quirked in a slight smile. She tugged a tie free and yanked the curtain closed between them to the sound of a small thunk on the carpet.
Rebecca took a half-step back, unsure why she trembled. The green-eyed Mister Kensley and his black-lacquered carriage didn’t evoke fear. Not exactly. Yes, he’d spotted her where she ought not be, the room set aside for him, but he couldn’t know in what window she stood.
Furthermore, he was a guest. In the only home she knew. Rebecca had no reason to feel caught, pinned by his gaze like a fly in molasses.
She drew in a long breath. Hand still unsteady, she yanked free the tie that secured the other half of the curtains. A few quick tugs had both panels back in place, the room shrouded in firelight. Rebecca hurried across the deep carpet toward the door.
In the hall, she drew her shoulders back and smoothed her already unwrinkled dress, then placed icy hands to each cheek to cool them. Charlie’s and Maggie’s voices drifted up the steps, along with Missus Barton’s squeak and a smooth, polite baritone she didn’t know. Mister Kensley.
Rebecca made her feet carry her down the hall. No, he wouldn’t know she’d spied from his room, but he’d obviously caught her watching Charlie. She hoped she hadn’t looked too calf eyed. Would Mister Kensley tell Charlie? She’d be mortified. Worse than any embarrassment, if Missus Barton thought for a moment that Rebecca might cause a hitch in her plans for Charlie to wed well, she’d be out on the street, distant relation or not.
Despair washed through Rebecca, for she didn’t wish to interrupt those plans. She cared for Charlie too much. He deserved better than her. She wanted him to have the happy, wealthy union his family coveted.
Charlie paid attention to her outside the bounds of necessity. She would always hold him dear for that, but she had no wish to rob him of the carefree future a rich wife would provide. That future would see him happy, not shackled with her.
As she neared the staircase, the sounds of her relations and Mister Kensley exchanging greetings drifted up. She pictured Maggie’s elegant curtsy, how she would lean forward to show off the lowered neckline of her newly made-over gown. Charlie would roll his eyes. Missus Barton would wear a small, smug smile. Even now, Mister Kensley would be gaping at Maggie’s considerable assets, his attention thoroughly captured.
Rebecca turned the corner. She went still at the top of the steps. Those green eyes, piercing, intent, were not on Maggie’s display of décolletage. Though everything else was as Rebecca predicted, Mister Kensley focused on the top step. On her.
Maggie straightened and craned her neck to follow his attention. She sighted Rebecca and she turned full round. Her smile was brittle.
“Becca.” Maggie’s high-pitched tone held the same false warmth and delight as her smile. “Where have you been? Charlie’s home.” She whirled back to Mister Kensley, bouncing her golden curls, along with other attributes. “And he’s brought a friend.”
Rebecca met Mister Kensley’s gaze. He dipped his head in a slight nod. She’d never seen eyes so very green before, nor so intense. They seemed to delve into her soul.
“Becca.”
That single word, in Charlie’s light baritone, set her free of M
ister Kensley’s gaze. Her earlier joy sprang to life at her name on Charlie’s lips. She smiled gratefully and started down the steps.
She nearly stopped again when she saw the way Charlie looked at her. He smiled, but not at her. Not her face, at least. He seemed to feel today was the occasion for a lengthy perusal of her figure. When he finally met her gaze, as she reached the bottom step, the gleam that brightened his eyes disconcerted her. His gaze held a sort of covetousness she found unsettling.
A shiver went through her. Confused, she aimed her attention at the marble floor, the only safe place. She blinked at the chaos of embarrassment, repulsion and hope that roiled through her. Didn’t she want Charlie to look at her that way, like she was a woman?
Almost worse than Charlie’s look, his mother stood beside him. Had Missus Barton noticed his interest? She would toss Rebecca out, after taking a paddle to her. Mustering her courage, Rebecca peeked to find Missus Barton still wore a smug smile. She counted herself lucky Charlie’s mother hadn’t observed his expression.
Mister Kensley stepped around Maggie. “I don’t believe we have been introduced,” he said in a voice notably deeper and more melodic than Charlie’s.
Maggie sidled up to him. “This is our little foundling, Becca. That is, Miss Wycliff, rather. She’s been with us since her third year, poor thing.” She turned her brittle smile on Rebecca. “Becca, this is Mister Kensley, whom Charlie brought home to entertain me.”
Rebecca nodded, then dropped into a curtsy. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Kensley.” She hoped Maggie knew the nod was for her, that Rebecca had no designs on Maggie’s Mister Kensley.
“And I yours, Miss Wycliff.” Mister Kensley bowed.
“Becca,” Charlie repeated. He captured her hand as she turned to him. “You look extraordinary.” He bowed over her fingers. His lips brushed her skin.
Rebecca yanked her hand back, startled. Her cheeks flamed. “Th-thank you.”
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