Some Like It Wild

by Teresa Medeiros

  The duke lifted his hand, stifling the man in mid-sentence. His shoulders began to shake. A strangled sound emerged from his throat, launching him into one of his more terrible coughing fits. Pamela inched to the edge of her chair, fearing he was going to expire right before their eyes, making Connor the duke.

  But when he rolled his chair back around to face him, she realized he wasn’t coughing, but laughing. Laughing without a trace of bitterness. Laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his haggard cheeks.

  Struggling to catch his breath, he pointed a palsied finger at Connor. “Such ingenuity! Such gall! There’s no denying that you’re my son now, is there? But the joke’s on you, isn’t it, lad? And I’ll wager you haven’t even thought about the worst of it yet. If I’m your father, then that means that Astrid is your aunt and Crispin is truly your—”

  “—cousin,” Connor finished, dropping his head into his hands with a groan.

  “Your grace,” the constable snapped, striding toward the desk. “Surely you’re not going to just let them get away with such a nefarious scheme!” He drew a piece of paper from his coat and shook it at the duke. “What about this broadsheet? It all but proves this man is guilty of any number of crimes against the crown.”

  The duke took the broadsheet from the man’s hand and gave it a cursory glance. “This proves nothing. There may be a slight resemblance, but the man in this sketch is wearing a mask. He could be anyone.” He wadded the broadsheet into a ball and tossed it over his shoulder into the fire.

  The constable began to sputter. “Wh—Wh—What about this woman then? Surely you’re going to allow me to arrest her. Why, she’s nothing but a common criminal!”

  Connor tensed and started to rise, but the duke waved him back down before crooking a finger at Pamela.

  She reluctantly rose and moved to stand before the desk like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, her hands clasped in front of her.

  “What do you have to say for yourself, girl?”

  She lifted her head to look him boldly in the eye, much as she had done that first day in the solarium. “We haven’t been completely truthful, your grace.”

  He began to chortle anew. “Now there’s a shock, isn’t it?”

  “I didn’t come here just to bilk you out of your fortune. I came here to find my mother’s murderer. I have every reason to believe the fire that killed her was no accident. That someone set it in order to destroy your duchess’s letter. Someone very close to you who wanted to make sure your true heir was never found.”

  The duke’s smile faded, leaving him looking troubled—almost pensive.

  “I was the one who convinced Connor”—Pamela cleared her throat with some difficulty—“his lordship to help me by appealing to his sense of chivalry.”

  Connor sprang to his feet. “The lass is lying! She appealed to my greed and to my lust for revenge against the English. She’s the innocent one. I was only in it for the money.”

  The duke eyed Pamela with a shrewd eye. “Oh, I think you were in it for much more than that.” He shook his head. “Clever, resourceful girl. I liked you the moment I saw you.”

  Shock rippled through her. “You called me a bold and reckless girl. And a cheeky chit.”

  “And have you done anything to disprove that estimation?”

  She inclined her head. “I suppose not.”

  “Very well, then. You’re dismissed.”

  The constable went red, then purple. “But your grace—”

  The duke sighed. “If this man is really my son and this girl brought us together just as she promised to do, then what crime has she committed?”

  The constable opened and closed his mouth several times before snapping it shut. “What about the girl’s preposterous claim that someone may have murdered her mother?”

  “Oh, I believe I can take care of that situation. You’ll simply have to trust me.” He included Connor and Pamela in his sweeping gaze before saying pointedly, “All of you.”

  The constable slammed on his hat, bristling with disapproval.

  “I do have one task you could perform before you leave,” the duke said.

  The man brightened, plainly hoping there was still someone lurking about the mansion who needed to be hanged. “How can I be of service, your grace?”

  The feverish glow had left the duke’s eyes, leaving them as cold as the glitter of freshly cut diamonds. “On your way out, you can tell the butler to ring for my sister.”

  Astrid slipped into the study, struggling to look sympathetic and demure instead of wildly triumphant. Her brother sat all alone behind his desk, studying the face of what appeared to be a gold pocket watch. The flames dancing on the hearth behind him cast his face in shadow.

  She dropped gracefully into one of the wingback chairs in front of the desk, already anticipating how graciously she would respond when he began to congratulate her on her cleverness. “I saw the constable and his men leaving the grounds. May I assume those dreadful miscreants are now in their custody and on the way to Newgate?”

  Her brother snapped the watch shut and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “You may assume whatever you like. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call my son a miscreant.”

  “Your son?” Despite the cozy warmth of the room, Astrid felt a chill tickle her spine. “Surely you don’t mean that imposter? He’s not your son. That broadsheet I turned over to the authorities proved he’s nothing but an incorrigible criminal who’s escaped the hangman’s noose for the last time. Please tell me you haven’t deluded yourself yet again!”

  The look he gave her was pitying, but without a trace of mercy. “I’m not the one who has deluded myself, Astrid. Did you really think you could make me believe that boy didn’t belong to me? To her? The first time I looked into his eyes and saw his mother looking back at me, I knew who he was. I never doubted it for a minute, not even when you were howling for his blood and the constable was clapping him in irons.”

  Astrid bit her bottom lip to still its sudden trembling, tasting the salty warmth of her own blood on her tongue. “I was only trying to protect you. I’ve always tried to look after you, you know,” she told him, despising the whining note in her voice.

  “Indeed you have. But I made a very curious discovery in the past week. Whenever I don’t drink the tea you prepare for me, I don’t cough—or sleep—nearly as much. As a matter of fact, I’ve felt myself growing a little stronger each day.”

  Astrid gasped in shock as he gripped the edge of the desk and slowly inched his way upward until he was standing on his feet like a haggard ghost of the man he had once been.

  She clutched at her throat. “What are you trying to imply?”

  “That I think it’s time you packed your bags and left this house,” he said gently. “Don’t worry. I’ll see to it that you lack for nothing. I’ve already rented a cottage and hired a private nurse. I’ll provide a generous allowance for you until the day you die.”

  “What about my son?” she hissed. “Are you going to cast your nephew into the streets as well?”

  “I believe I’ll leave that decision up to my son. If Percy—if Connor wants him to stay, I’ll allow it.”

  She straightened until her spine was as stiff as an iron poker, standing face to face with her brother for the first time in years. “How very benevolent of you,” she said with a sneer. “You’re no different from Father, are you? He couldn’t wait to be rid of me either.” As if watching someone else from a great distance, she could hear her voice rising on a shrill note. Could see the ugly beads of spittle flying from her lips. “Father never even saw me. He would look right through me as if I wasn’t even there. He married me off to a drunken sot and I had to endure the lout’s crude fumblings night after night until he got his whelp on me. I wrote Father dozens of letters begging him to let me come home. But he never even took the time to answer one of them. He never cared about me. All he ever cared about was you—his precious heir!”

  �
��You should go, Astrid. Before I’m forced to call back the constable and ask him to investigate the tragic death of Marianne Darby.”

  Astrid felt an icy shroud of calm descending over her. “You’ll be sorry, Archie. I promise you that you’ll rue the day you cast me out of your life!” With those words, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the door.

  It wasn’t until the door had slammed behind her that her brother sank back into his chair, running a weary hand over his face. “I already do, Astrid,” he whispered. “I already do.”

  Pamela perched on the edge of Sophie’s dressing room cot, watching her sister sleep. Judging by the grimy tear tracks staining Sophie’s fair cheeks and the wrinkled blue gown tossed carelessly over the back of a chair, it didn’t appear that her sister’s masquerade had ended any more successfully than her own.

  She brushed a curl from Sophie’s cheek, thinking how heartbroken the girl was going to be when she discovered she’d missed one of the scandals of the century. The gossipmongers and scandal sheets would no doubt be abuzz with the news for weeks to come. After all, it wasn’t every day that a marquess and his fiancée were hauled out of a ball hosted in their honor in irons.

  She gently tucked the blanket around Sophie’s shoulders. She might as well let her sleep for now. She would have to wake her soon enough.

  Pamela returned to her bedchamber and the task at hand, making a concerted effort not to look at the tightly latched window. But it wasn’t so easy to steer clear of her bed where Connor had held her tenderly in his arms until the wee hours of the morning. Or the cheval glass she had stood in front of while he wrapped his arms around her from behind and encouraged her to watch their entwined reflections while he pleasured her. Or the settee where he had—

  Pamela squeezed her eyes shut, a blade of fresh pain lancing through her heart. She could leave the lamps lit and latch the window, but there was nothing she could do to bar the doors of her heart. No way to stop the memories from stealing past her defenses and wreaking havoc on her fragile determination.

  She dropped her burdens on the bed and drifted toward the window. The night beyond seemed darker than ever before, the moonlight paler and more brittle. The somber-eyed woman gazing back at her from the wavy glass bore little resemblance to anyone she knew. She rested her brow against the cool glass and closed her eyes, feeling a hot tear trickle down her cheek.

  She was reaching up to dash it away before it could be joined by others when her bedchamber door flew open. Clapping a hand to her pounding heart, she whirled around to find one very large, very angry Scotsman standing in the doorway.

  Chapter 27

  If Connor were dressed all in black and gripping a pistol, he would have looked exactly as he had on that moonlit road in the Highlands on the night they had met. “Did you really think latching the window was going to keep me out?”

  She stiffened. “You’ll be the master of this house someday. I suppose you can go wherever you like.”

  He started forward and she took a wary step backward. He stopped, eyeing her incredulously. “What do you think I’m going to do, lass? Lift my hand to you?”

  She couldn’t tell him that she was more afraid of him putting his hands on her. She knew just how persuasive and irresistible those hands could be.

  Resting them on his hips, he surveyed the untidy room, taking in the open trunk sitting on the floor, the battered valise perched on the settee, the gowns and shoes scattered across the bed. His gaze finally returned to her. She wasn’t wearing her elegant ball dress or her nightdress, but a simple copper merino gown with frayed seams and a high neck that had been out of fashion for at least three seasons.

  The sight obviously did not improve his temper.

  He shook his head. “I should have known it would come to this. It’s just like the English to cut and run at the first sign of a battle.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “And I should have remembered that the Scots are notorious for not fighting fairly. In case you didn’t notice, the battle has been won. The duke’s beloved son has been restored to the bosom of his family. He’s now free to take his rightful place in society.”

  “Free?” Connor shook his head in disgust. “I’ll never be free again. I’ll spend the rest of my life behind bars—imprisoned in this gilded cage.”

  She drew closer to him, unable to help herself. “That’s not true, Connor. You’ll be truly free now. Free to travel the world. Free to study. Free to move through society without always looking over your shoulder because the hangman might be one step behind you.” She inclined her head, adding softly, “Free to choose a bride who will do honor to your station in life.”

  “I already have.”

  She lifted her head. Whatever he saw in her eyes made him close the distance between them in two strides. His fingers dug into her upper arms, giving her a rough little shake. “Dammit, Pamela, I’m still the same man! The man you took to your bed only last night. The man who had to put his hand over your mouth to keep you from waking the entire household when he—”

  “No, you’re not!” she cried, the words pouring straight out of her lacerated heart. “You’re not the same man at all. That man was a rogue—an imposter, just as I was. You’re a marquess. And someday soon you’ll be a duke, while I’ll never be anything more than the bastard daughter of an actress. You’ve had two fathers now. I’ll never even have one!”

  Connor released her and moved back a step to put some space between them. Pamela eyed him warily, unnerved by his quick surrender and the dangerous gleam in his eye.

  He folded his arms over his chest, the motion accentuating the natural arrogance she had noted in his bearing upon their very first meeting. “If you no longer fancy yourself fine enough to be my bride, then you can be my mistress.” His smoky gaze drifted lazily down her, then back up again, heating everything it touched. “You’ve already proved you have the skills to please me.”

  She gasped, unprepared for such a blow.

  He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “You needn’t look so shocked. It would hardly be unheard of for the daughter of an actress to warm a marquess’s bed. I’ll be well equipped to provide for you and Sophie. I can buy you a modest house somewhere, some bonny jewels, perhaps even a wee dog to help you pass the time when I’m too busy with my duties—or my wife—to pay a visit to your bed.”

  She lifted her chin. “And just what would I be expected to offer in exchange for the privilege of becoming your mistress?”

  “Whatever I wanted.” He leaned down to bring his mouth close to her ear, his husky whisper sending a shiver of longing through her soul. “Whenever I wanted it.”

  “Very well,” she said coolly. “I accept your offer. I couldn’t have become your bride tonight, but there’s nothing to stop me from becoming your mistress.”

  He straightened, his face going so still it could have been carved from granite. “There isn’t?”

  “Of course not. All you have to do is tell me what pleases you.” She tossed her head, with a low, throaty laugh. “Don’t worry. I know how to play the role of strumpet. I saw my mother do it often enough—both on the stage and off of it. Shall I lie down on the bed and lift my skirts? Or should I bend over the settee?”

  “Stop it,” Connor growled.

  “Would you prefer to have me on my back?” She slanted him a provocative glance. “Or my knees?”

  “Stop it, Pamela. Now!”

  “I was only trying to please you.”

  He seized her face in his hands, his gaze as raw as his voice. “If you want to please me, lass, then stop all this nonsense and marry me.”

  Connor’s fierce tenderness was far more difficult to bear than his cruelty or his mockery. Pamela inclined her head, not wanting him to see the tears welling up in her eyes. “I am afraid I can’t do that, my lord. I have no choice but to set you free from any promise you made to me before we knew the full circumstances of your birth, any obligation that might prevent you from as
suming your title and all of the privileges and duties that go with it, including the duty of finding a suitable bride and producing an heir of your own.”

  As Connor withdrew his hands from her, she could do nothing to stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks.

  His laugh was short and rueful. “This was our plan from the beginning, wasn’t it? That you would beg off our engagement and break my heart. I’m sure I’ll cut quite the tragic figure in the eyes of society. There will probably be no shortage of sympathetic women eager to console me.”

  His words cut to the heart, but Pamela knew she had no right to rebuke him. He wasn’t being cruel now, only honest.

  “You’re still entitled to the reward, you know,” he said.

  She drew in a shuddering breath, forcing herself to lift her head and meet his gaze. “I don’t want it.”

  His eyes were as silvery and distant as the moon. “You may not want it, but Sophie deserves it. Why don’t you just consider it payment for services rendered?”

  As Connor turned and walked out of the room, gently closing the door behind him, she collapsed to her knees beside the settee, burying her face in the cushions to muffle her sobs.

  Pamela had been crying for a long time when she became aware that someone was softly stroking her hair. She jerked up her head, her heart leaping with a wild and undeserved hope.

  Sophie was curled up on the settee next to where she’d been resting her head, her golden curls rumpled and her eyes puffy from sleep.

  Her sister touched a hand to her tear-ravaged cheek. “What ever is the matter, Pammie? I’ve never seen you cry like this. Not even when Maman died.”

  “I couldn’t,” Pamela confessed, croaking out a hiccup. “I had to be strong for you.”

  “There, there, dear,” Sophie crooned, giving her hair another tender stroke. “Why don’t you let me be strong for a little while?”

  Although she would have sworn she didn’t have a single tear left to weep, her sister’s compassion opened a brand new floodgate. The whole story came spilling out of her then—between sobs and snuffles and hiccups and several brief pauses to honk loudly into the worn handkerchief Sophie held up to her nose.