A Heart for the Taking

by Shirlee Busbee

  “I have brought some coffee and fresh-baked biscuits for us to share. Oh, and some of Letty’s strawberry jam. I am sure that you will enjoy it. Where would you like me to set the tray? In here or the setting room?”

  “Is there enough for me to share?” asked Ellen as she wandered slowly into Fancy’s bedchamber from the connecting hallway. She was wearing her blue dressing gown and, covering up a small yawn with one dainty hand, she said, “Oh, my, but I slept wonderfully last night. Did you, Fancy?”

  “Well, did you?” Chance mouthed silently, one brow cocked, his eyes dancing.

  “This is not amusing,” Fancy muttered, frantic that at any moment Ellen was going to push back the bed curtains. She eyed Chance distrustfully, one part of her wishing that he didn’t look quite so attractive as he lay there, his black hair wildly tousled, his hard jaw darkened by a hint of whiskers, another part of her aching to kill him. Painfully. Slowly. With great relish.

  “You planned this, didn’t you?” she accused in a low, furious voice, uncomfortably conscious of the other two women just beyond the bed curtains.

  A puzzled note in her voice, Ellen asked, “Fancy? Are you talking to yourself?”

  As Fancy watched in stunned horror, Chance suddenly sat up, the sheets resting dangerously low on his hips. Reaching across her, he flung back the bed curtain. “Why, no,” he said calmly, “she was talking to me.”

  Constance gave a shriek and promptly dropped the silver tray with a loud clatter at the shocking sight of Chance Walker lounging confidently in the bed beside Lady Merrivale. A very naked Chance Walker, if his upper body was any indication of the rest of him. Ellen stared first at her sister and then at Chance, her eyes getting very big, her mouth forming a perfect O of surprise.

  “Oh, my God,” Fancy groaned. Pulling the sheet over her head, she fell back against the pillows, wishing she could just die. “I am ruined,” she muttered. “Absolutely ruined.”

  “Actually, no,” Chance said coolly. “I have every intention of marrying you, just as soon as it can be arranged.”

  Oblivious of her wide-eyed audience, Fancy jerked upright. Her eyes flashing with angry golden lights, she spat, “Marry you? Why, you unscrupulous, conceited buffoon. You are the last person I’d marry!”

  Chance looked suitably wounded. “Duchess, how can you say that, after all we have been to each other . . . after last night. . . .”

  Fancy’s temper broke, and with a small shriek of rage, she flung herself at him, her hands clenched into fists. More furious than she could ever remember being in her life, she pummeled him wildly with all her might, smiling fiercely when he gave a grunt of pain as one of her fists landed smartly against his ear.

  With a smothered oath, Chance caught her flailing fists in his hands and, falling back onto the mattress, pulled her across him. “Now, now, sweetheart, is this any way to greet your lover . . . your future husband?” he murmured, a thread of laughter running through his voice.

  “What in the world is going on in here?” demanded Letty as she walked into the room, not a hair out of place and wearing a pale blue gown and striped bodice with a white apron. From where she stood, just inside the bedchamber, all she could see was Fancy’s back. Staring at the scattered pot and cups all over the floor and the stunned expressions on Constance’s and Ellen’s faces, she grew concerned. “I was walking down the hall when I heard the strangest commotion coming from Lady Merrivale’s rooms,” she said slowly. “Is anything wrong?”

  Fancy gasped and, abandoning her fight with Chance, glanced back over her shoulder. In guilty dismay she stared at Letty.

  “Is anything wrong?” screeched Constance, finally recovering from her stunned stupor. “Not a thing, if you do not consider it to be out of the ordinary to discover that Lady Merrivale is a brazen hussy without morals or character and that Chance Walker has repaid your many kindnesses to him by defiling my poor Jonathan’s bride-to-be.” She shot Fancy an ugly look, her face twisted with hatred and disgust. “Just you wait until I tell Jonathan. He will never marry you now. Your title might grant you special privileges and licenses and allow you to act the part of slut in England, but not here.” Constance drew in an angry, shaken breath. “I have never,” she pronounced grandly, “been so disappointed and disillusioned in my life. Why, I will wager you are not even a real baroness.” Her nose held high, Constance swept regally from the room.

  Fancy slumped against Chance, all the fight going out of her. “I want to die,” she muttered. “Please God strike me dead and let this farce be ended.”

  “I am sure,” Chance murmured warmly against her ear, “that when you have had a moment to think about it, you will find marriage to me is preferable to death.”

  Fancy shot him a look of venomous dislike. “Not bloody likely.”

  Chance shrugged and, releasing her, sat up once more. Meeting Letty’s shocked gaze, he said, “I am sorry that at least one thing Constance said is true. I have repaid your kindness in a most dastardly way, Cousin Letty, and for that I am very sorry. I have no excuse, and I will understand if you and Sam decide never to see me again. But if it will redeem me somewhat, I want you to know that I intend to take full responsibility for my actions. I intend to marry Lady Merrivale just as soon as it can be arranged.”

  Letty sent him a long, considering look. “I will not pretend that I am not hurt and disappointed in you, Chance,” she said quietly. “There is no denying that you have abused our hospitality most grievously.” She sighed. “But I suppose you could not help it—you have always been a wild, unorthodox boy. And I am aware that these things do happen, even in the best of circles.” She shook her head and added, “I doubt that Sam will throw you out, though he might very well want to.”

  “And you?” Chance asked softly. “Do you want to throw me out?”

  Letty made a face. “No, despite everything I have a fondness for you and would be saddened not to see you anymore. But this is really too bad of you, Chance. And offering to marry Lady Merrivale does not make it right. It was dishonorable of you to steal another man’s bride, even if nothing has been formalized, and I am afraid Jonathan is going to be most displeased by what has transpired.”

  Chance gave an unamused chuckle. “Displeased is no doubt putting it mildly. I suspect that he is going to be wanting my liver.”

  “No doubt,” Letty returned equably. “And in order to forestall bloodshed, I think I had better go and apprise Sam of what has happened. We will make certain that Jonathan is kept away from you for the moment.”

  Letty’s steady gaze rested a moment on Fancy, who felt a hot, crimson blush rising from her chin to her forehead as she bravely met the older woman’s eyes. This was the most humiliating moment of her life, and her powers of speech seemed to have deserted her, just when she needed them so desperately. Protesting her own innocence did not seem feasible, however, not when she had been caught in such damning circumstances. Would anyone believe her if she told her side of the story? She doubted it. Not, she thought viciously, with that scoundrel Chance Walker denying every word she spoke. Why was he doing this? He didn’t want to marry her. And God knew she didn’t want to marry him. But how was she going to get out of this?

  “Well, I have things to do,” Letty finally said. “I will send Ora to clean up this mess, and I would suggest that the pair of you get dressed and be prepared to meet Sam in his office within the hour.” A puzzled expression on her face, she looked once again at Fancy. “I suspected that your heart was not given to Jonathan, but I never dreamed . . .” She shook herself. “It is none of my business, but I just wish that if you had changed your mind, you had let Jonathan down more gently. He is going to be shattered by this. Shattered and very, very angry.”

  Fancy’s eyes met Ellen’s, but she slowly shook her head. Explaining that it was Ellen who had actually been Jonathan’s choice wouldn’t change anything—Chance would still be sitting naked in her bed. Her throat feeling hot and rusty, she said painfully, “I am very
sorry to have caused you and your family such distress.” She flashed Chance a look of sheer venom before turning back to Letty. “If I could have avoided it, I would have.” Lamely she ended, “Some things are just beyond one’s control.”

  Letty nodded slowly, her face softening just a little. “Indeed they are, my dear. Now then, I shall leave you.”

  “Oh, me too,” Ellen exclaimed hastily as Letty began to leave the room. Her eyes not meeting Fancy’s, guiltily aware that her actions had compounded her sister’s embarrassing predicament, she added, “I am certain that you two wish to be alone. Y-y-you must have a lot to discuss.”

  And before Fancy could say anything, she darted into the connecting hallway, slamming the door shut behind her.

  Chance lay back down and, his arms once more behind his head, glanced at Fancy’s stony profile. The lady was not happy. He sighed. He certainly hadn’t expected her to be happy. He just hadn’t planned on it mattering so damn much.

  There was a tense silence in the room for several seconds before Fancy turned and looked at him. “Why?” she asked bluntly. “Why did you do this? And do you really think that I am going to marry you?”

  “I do not,” he said easily, “see how you can get out of it. Not if you want to be left with a shred of reputation.”

  “I can return to England immediately. It is unlikely the story will follow me there,” Fancy said sharply.

  “Ah, but can you be sure? I am positive that Jonathan or Constance will not keep quiet about how you disillusioned them—and he has friends in England. And how do you think this sordid tale will affect Ellen? It certainly will not be pleasant for her if the whispers about you follow her.”

  Fancy’s eyes closed in pain and her hands clenched into fists. “Do you know that you are the most despicable creature it has ever been my misfortune to meet?” she said finally, glaring at him. “I hate you. I will make you a terrible wife.”

  “Will you really?” he said tightly, his hands suddenly grabbing her and dragging her down to him. He brushed his lips across hers and then crushed her soft mouth beneath his.

  Too stunned to resist, Fancy felt her lips parting for him, and as his tongue surged hungrily into her mouth, she was shamefully conscious of her body’s instant response to him: liquid warmth burning low in her belly, her breasts tingling, her breathing labored and constricted. When his hand cupped her breast, she gave a low moan and a shudder of pleasure went through her as he gently tweaked one throbbing nipple.

  Breathing hard, his own body responding fiercely to hers, Chance suddenly pushed her away. It was clear that she was not as indifferent to him as she pretended. As he stared into her flushed features, the unacknowledged fear that he had made a disastrous mistake suddenly vanished. A faint, mocking smile on his long mouth, he brushed his lips against hers once more. “Now tell me again,” he said huskily, “just how very much you hate me and what a terrible wife you are going to be.”

  Chapter Nine

  Fancy had been incensed by his words. Flinging him a scathing look, she had scrambled away from him, vowing never, never to marry him, no matter what horrid future awaited her. It had taken all of Chance’s enormous powers of persuasion to finally convince her that she was well and truly trapped; if she ever hoped to hold her head up again, either in the Colonies or in England, she was going to have to marry him. It was obvious that, as furious as she was, Fancy might have risked her own reputation, but Chance had coolly pointed out again and again that it wasn’t just her reputation at stake—as her sister, Ellen, too, would be tarred with the same brush, if Fancy continued to refuse to marry him. By the time Chance left to dress for the meeting with Sam, Fancy wasn’t precisely resigned to her fate, but it was evident she understood the enormity of the personal and social disaster that had befallen her. With daggers in her eyes and, no doubt, fury in her heart, she had silently watched him leave her bedchamber.

  There had been several reasons why Chance had wanted to meet alone with Sam, and not the least of these was that he wanted no opportunity for Fancy to wiggle out of marriage to him. Sam was notoriously soft-hearted, and if Fancy threw herself on his mercy, well, he just might try to figure out a way for her to avoid Chance’s trap. He might tell himself that revenge was motivating his actions, but he was uneasily aware that he desperately wanted to marry Fancy and that when he thought of her as his wife, revenge had very little to do with the emotions that filled him.

  Sam was not at all pleased with what had transpired, but, like Letty, he took it in stride. What was done was done, and while he greatly deplored the situation and wished it had not happened, there was no use crying over spilt milk—it changed nothing.

  Chance was glad that Fancy was not at the meeting. He had been the one who had transgressed, not Fancy, and, for reasons he didn’t quite comprehend himself, he wanted to make certain that Sam understood that particular aspect of the situation. It mattered, and it shouldn’t have, that Sam not think ill of Fancy. There was the fact, too, that it was Chance who was a member of the family, not Fancy. Sam exercised no authority over Chance, but he was the head of the large, tightly knit Walker clan, while Fancy was merely a guest. A guest who had been taken base advantage of by Chance, as Sam had unhappily pointed out to him.

  Chance’s avowed determination to marry the baroness did much to mollify Sam. But Chance was painfully conscious that the older man was very disappointed in him, and he wondered dully if striking back at Jonathan was going to be worth the cost. His bride-to-be hated him and thought him the blackest villain in nature, and his disgraceful actions had greatly strained the warm relationship he had with Sam and Letty. He had not realized until this moment how much their approval meant to him. Had he, driven by thoughts of revenge against Jonathan, forever destroyed their trust and liking for him?

  “You realize,” Sam said slowly, having already vented the worst of his anger and dismay at the situation, “that Jonathan is not going to simply let this rest? You have grievously insulted him.”

  The two men were in Sam’s office, which was located in a modest building a few hundred yards away from the main house. Sam was seated behind a huge walnut desk, his feet propped on a low wooden stool as he stared broodingly at Chance, who sat across from him in a brown leather chair.

  Garbed casually in fine leather boots, buckskin breeches, and a white linen shirt, Chance was the very picture of a son of a wealthy Virginia planter. Looking at him, Sam felt a pang of sadness. With that hint of unconscious arrogance in his bearing and a reckless gleam in those Walker blue eyes, Chance looked very much as his son might have, Sam thought regretfully, if the boy had lived.

  Chance shrugged. “Can you remember a time in which just the mere sight of me has not affronted your esteemed half-brother? For reasons known best to him, Jonathan seems to find the very fact of my birth insulting.”

  Sam grimaced wryly. “How well I know. It would help if that damned Morely would just acknowledge you and get it over with. Why he continues to deny you your rightful heritage is a mystery to me. It always has been.”

  “But ’tis not just my bastardy that eats at Jonathan,” Chance said quietly. “You, Cousin Letty, the majority of the Walkers do not seem to pay it any heed anymore. Why should Jonathan?”

  Sam shook his head. “I do not know. It pains me to admit it, but I suspect that even if you had been born legitimate, Jonathan would only have found another reason to dislike you.” He shot Chance a dark look. “And you, young man, have not helped matters. For God’s sake, Chance, what the devil were you thinking of?”

  Not meeting Sam’s eyes, his own gaze resting on his boots, Chance murmured, “She is very beautiful, Sam. I am afraid that I lost my head.”

  Sam gave an angry sigh. “Dash it all, Chance. Under different circumstances, I would be kicking my heels together for joy to hear that you had finally put Jenny’s death behind you and had found someone else. But dear Lord. Did it have to be Lady Merrivale?” He didn’t really expect an answer and wen
t on wearily, “I suppose you know that this is a very delicate situation. I can only thank God that no formal announcement has been made. But smoothing this over is not going to be simple. Even before the Baroness arrived there was gossip and speculation aplenty about the purpose of her visit. Constance, while dropping broad hints—extremely broad hints, I might add—has been very coy about actually admitting that Jonathan intended to marry Lady Merrivale—for which, under the circumstances, I am grateful. Jonathan has not been very forthcoming, either, although, he has made it clear that marriage was in the wind. In fact, until last night, I was not even certain which of the Merrivale women he intended to marry. One moment he seemed to dangle after the baroness, the next after her sister. It had me baffled, I can tell you.”

  “Well, at least you can have no doubts about which Merrivale I intend to marry,” Chance said dryly.

  “Indeed I haven’t. I just wish you had chosen a more orthodox way to make your intentions apparent,” Sam retorted grimly. “The kidnapping of the ladies by those despicable Thackers was bad enough, but now we have the problem of keeping Jonathan from your throat and of making this sudden marriage between you and Lady Merrivale appear as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. No mean feat, I can tell you.”

  Chance looked thoughtful. “Could we not use the abduction by the Thackers and subsequent rescue by Hugh and me as an explanation for the sudden wedding?” He grinned. “The beautiful rescued damsel falls in love with the handsome, dashing hero who saved her from a fate worse than death?”