"Miss Caroline!" A fresh-faced Irish girl stood in the doorway, her white apron stiff with starch. "Miss Caroline! Her Ladyship says yer to come down now. They's all waitin' fer ye, miss. Oh, don't ye look just fine!"
"Thank you, Annie." Charity's eyes flicked to the mirror again. It wouldn't be her, not really. It was Caroline going down them steps. Caroline would know what to say to all them gentlefolk—how to dance—yes, and how to drink punch like you didn't care if you liked it. Caroline could do it, she was born to it. Charity smiled at the reflection. Caroline would never last an hour on the docks, but she'd know just how to act to catch Jamie Drummond's eye. Charity picked up her ivory fan and pulled on the delicate white gloves. Charity could just hide inside and let Caroline do all the hard stuff. Any fool could smile and act like a porcelain figurine. Her gray-green eyes narrowed. Being a lady was a lot like being a pickpocket. It was all in pretending you were something you weren't. With a self-satisfied chuckle, Charity glided toward the top of the staircase.
"Well, would you look at that!" a male voice exclaimed.
James Drummond turned from his conversation with a local planter to stare at the young woman descending the stairway.
He was vaguely aware of murmurs of approval from the crowd around him.
Charity hesitated a few steps from the bottom, her gloved hand on the banister. Her eyes searched among the strangers for a familiar face. Where was Lady Deale? Sheer terror seized her. Why were they all gaping at her?
"A real beauty, what?" The older man chuckled and nudged Jamie. "Don't tell me you're smitten already? That's Elizabeth's niece." He nudged Jamie a second time. "A sweet bird, eh? That one will be wed before the snow flies or I'll miss my guess."
Jamie let out his breath sharply. Was it possible he'd forgotten just how beautiful she was? Warm excitement coursed through him, and he felt a tightening in his loins. God! She was magnificent! Her skin was like silk, her hair... He swallowed hard, picturing what that body would look like without a gown concealing it.
He found his voice. "Mistress Caroline." He crossed the room to the wide hallway and offered her his hand. "James Drummond. We met—"
"Of course, I remember you," Charity said softly. "You saved my life." She smiled at him. "When my horse ran away." The touch of his hand seared hers through the thin silk. Delicious waves of joy brought a flush to her cheeks, and her green eyes sparkled devilishly.
If she had thought him dashing on horseback, his appearance tonight left her without words. Her eyes traveled up the well-turned legs to the muscular thighs encased in skin-tight tawny breeches. The ruffled white shirt and spotless stock were enhanced by an azure satin vest and coat. He wore his own hair, drawn back simply in a club at the back of his neck.
Charity moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "You are kind to take time with me, sir," she murmured. "I know no one here but my aunt. It is all very strange."
Jamie tucked his arm around hers and led her into the great room. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you."
He even smells like a lord, she thought. She couldn't identify the scent, a mixture of tobacco and oiled leather, a rich masculine odor. A warning voice from within jerked Charity back to reality. Lady Deale had warned her against Jamie Drummond and his wiles. Doubtless his sweet lies had coaxed many a foolish girl between the sheets. She sighed. He was so beautiful.
"Mistress Caroline?"
She realized he'd been talking to her. "I beg your pardon?"
"I asked if you would care for some refreshment."
"Yes, thank you, I would." Her mouth was as dry as sawdust.
"There are some friends of mine I'd like you to meet." He grinned. "Or maybe I won't introduce you. Then I won't have to share you with anyone."
Minutes later, James Drummond guided her effortlessly across the ballroom and out the garden doors to the covered promenade. Charity's head spun. She was intoxicated, not by the rum punch, but by the sheer magic of the evening. Strains of music floated through the open windows and the air was heavy with the scent of roses.
Jamie slipped an arm about her waist, and it seemed natural to rest her head against his broad shoulder. "Having a good time?"
"Oh, yes! Yes! It's wonderful!"
"More exciting than the convent?"
Charity thought she detected a note of amusement in his voice. Easily, she moved away and turned to face him. His face was shadowed beneath the porch. "Are you makin' fun, sir?" She closed the fan and brought the tip of it to the corner of her mouth, as Elizabeth had demonstrated. She didn't remember what it meant exactly, but it seemed like something Caroline might do.
He laughed. "You're a special girl, Caroline Smythe-Tarylton. I don't believe I've ever met anyone quite like you. You've taken the Tidewater without firing a shot." He reached for her and she evaded him without seeming to.
She bent and picked a rosebud, holding it before her as a shield. "Everyone has been... very kind."
"And why not? We've a shortage of eligible young ladies. Even the earl is charmed."
"Lord Beauford and his wife... Lady..."
"Lady Edith," he supplied.
"...Lady Edith, are sweet. He reminds me of my grandsir."
Jamie laughed again. "I'm certain that wasn't his intention. But then Edith watches him like a hawk. He's very rich."
"I wouldn't know. Money... money does not concern me. Father said we girls had no head for it." She sniffed at the rose. "It's beautiful here, like another world."
"After London one would think you'd be bored." He captured her hand. "You're a breath of fresh air, Caroline. I think I'm in love." He brought her fingertips to his lips. "Walk with me in the gardens. They're beautiful at night."
"I think not," Caroline said archly. "Methinks you do give your heart too lightly, sir. I will return to our guests." She dipped a quick curtsy and darted through the doorway before he could stop her.
"There you are!" Lady Deale called. "Caroline, I want you to meet a very dear friend, Squire Richard Moreland. Richard, my cousin's daughter Caroline. Richard has just come out of mourning for his wife."
"My sympathies, sir," Caroline whispered, "on your terrible loss."
"Just so," he mumbled. "Poor Olivia. Her lungs, you know." He raised Charity's gloved hand and kissed the air over it.
Charity watched through her lashes as the portly squire rambled on. His florid face was as lined and creased as a common farmer's, and the startling blue eyes were too small for his head. He was not much above her own height, but his wrinkled hands were clean and the nails cut straight across.
Charity jumped! Lady Deale was clearing her throat pointedly. What had the man said? What was the accepted reply? Her mind went blank, and she giggled. Squire Moreland squeezed her hand.
"Perhaps you'd like some punch, my dear. Look to your other guests, Lizbet. Little Caroline's quite safe with me, you know. Near old enough to be her father, you know." He grinned foolishly, exposing a gold tooth.
Grandsir, Charity thought. He's three score and ten if he's a day. "Thank you kindly, Squire," she lisped. Richard Moreland. Her brain began to work again. Squire Moreland. Widower. Owns a plantation and three farms. Has five children, all grown and established on their own plantations. The man was decent and his breath didn't smell like a sot's. He'd have been perfect for her plans if she hadn't met Jamie Drummond first. A smile began in the gray-green eyes and spread to her pink lips. Jamie Drummond. Now there was a man! Her heart did a funny flutter as she allowed the squire to lead her across the room toward the punch bowl.
"Such a brave little thing to come all this way alone," the squire mumbled. "Takes good lungs to survive in this country. Yours trouble you any?" He stared pointedly at the top of her gown.
"No, sir," she murmured softly. "I have been blessed with the most robust o' health, praise God." The tip of her tongue traced her top lip. "It must be very hard for a man..." She blushed prettily. "For a man, such as yourself, to live alone after so many years of
blessed matrimony."
"Ahem," he cleared his throat. "Quite so, quite so. Olivia was a good sort, knew her duty, she did. Gave me seven boys, four living. That's my Charles 'cross the room with his wife in the yellow dress." Charles glared at them from his spot by the door. "Charles is the second oldest. There's William, Charles, little Olivia, Edgar, and Edmund. Had another boy, John. He broke his neck in a fox hunt last spring. Terrible thing. Only one of the bunch with any sense. All the rest take after Olivia's people... Yorkshire rubbish."
Charity took the cup of punch and sipped at it daintily. The table fair groaned with all manner of lovely things to eat! There were white flour cakes, pies, and sugar cookies. Raisin buns and blueberry muffins were piled high on silver platters.
"Nothing to eat!" Elizabeth had warned. "Maggie will bring a tray to your room later. I'll not have your gown stained with sticky sweets, and no maid looks winsome with her mouth crammed full of cake."
The sweets were hard to refuse, but nothing compared to the smells coming from the dining room. There a buffet fit to serve a king had been laid out. There was roast fowl—duck and goose and chicken—pork and beef and all manner of shellfish.
"Evening, Squire." Jamie Drummond bowed to Caroline. "Hate to trouble you, sir. But the lady promised this dance to me."
The squire's blue eyes clouded with disapproval. "Did she now?" He stared at Charity. "Mistress?"
The ivory fan opened halfway and covered the lower part of her face. "Indeed, sir." She permitted a soft sigh of regret. "I did promise..."
Squire Moreland took the punch cup from her fingers. His spine stiffened, and he nodded briskly to Drummond. "Since the lady is willing." He bowed to Charity. "We'll continue our talk later."
She kept her face down as Jamie led her into the steps of the dance. "Don't forget to confess that lie," he whispered. "About promising me this dance. I'd not want it to stain your soul."
She stared up into twinkling eyes. "And who told the first lie?"
"Eve, I should imagine."
The music changed; Charity moved from one partner to another, her body remembering the intricate steps while her mind seethed. He'd as much as called her a liar, just because her feet were itching to dance instead of standing sedately next to that stodgy old man.
Jamie seized her about the waist, and she glared at him, "Knave!"
"Why, Mistress Caroline," he whispered in her ear. "I believe I've offended you."
Charity trod down heavily on the toe of his soft leather shoe and he gasped. The next partner took her hand and she moved around the circle.
"You look good enough to eat." Lord Beauford settled his arm about her waist. Charity giggled and slipped out of his grasp.
There must be something in the water, she thought as she glided through the crowded great room and into the shadowy hall. These old codgers are all randy as spring cockerels! She leaned against the library door and tried to settle her agitation. She'd shown anger over Jamie's teasing. It had been stupid of her. Any fool knows you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. She'd have no chance of landing him as a husband if she made many more such mistakes.
"Caroline."
She looked up to see him watching her from the doorway. "I'm sorry. I..."
He came toward her. "It was only a jest. No need to take on so. I didn't like the way that old goat was leering down the front of your gown." He took her arm, opening the library door with his free hand. "I'd like to speak with you—alone."
"There's nothing we can't say in public, sir," she protested. She glanced up and down the hall. "Besides, we're alone here."
"Please." He took her hand and drew her inside, closing the door behind them.
The room was lit by a single candelabra and smelled of bayberry. Several high-backed chairs and a desk were grouped together. The walls were lined with books, more than Charity had ever seen in one place.
"What did you want to talk to me about?" she demanded.
He pulled her against him, holding her lightly. "You're very beautiful, Caroline." He touched her cheek, tracing the line of her cheekbone, then trailing down to follow the curve of her lower lip. "Beautiful." He lowered his head, meeting her lips with his in a tender, exploring kiss.
Charity was no stranger to kissing. She'd had plenty, some sought after and others forced upon her. Jamie's caress was gentle, yet it stirred her more than she cared to admit, even to herself. Before she could protest, he released her.
"I've been wanting to do that since I first laid eyes on you," he admitted. His open face was flushed in the glow of the candlelight. "You're a beautiful woman."
"And do you always kiss every girl you wish to?"
"Usually."
"At least you're honest." Charity stepped back out of his reach and regarded him closely. "I've been warned about you. 'Tis said a maid is not safe alone with you." Her lips still tingled from his kiss. How did a woman keep control when her own flesh betrayed her?
Jamie's voice was husky. "You're no schoolgirl, and you're certainly not afraid to be here with me."
He opened his arms and she was drawn into them. Her head tilted back, and their lips met. A warm liquid coursed through her veins as Charity felt her body mold to his. Her lips parted to admit his seeking tongue, and their kiss deepened naturally. The rich male scent of him filled her brain. God, but he was sweet! Breathless, she pulled free.
"'Twas no lie, Jamie Drummond. You are a dangerous man."
He laughed softly. "And am I to believe you learned to kiss like that in a convent?"
"Be that as it may," she warned. "I'm no lightskirt."
"I didn't think you were."
A woman's voice came clearly through the closed door. "Caroline?"
"My aunt is looking for me. I have to go."
"Ride with me tomorrow." His hand touched her bare shoulder, sending shivers of excitement down her arm. "I'll call for you at ten."
"I've not said I'd go." She nervously twisted a lock of hair.
"You'll come, I'm irresistible." His lips brushed the top of her head.
Charity opened the door a crack, stifling a giggle. "You're a scoundrel, and the type of man my mother warned me about." She slipped out into the hallway and returned to the party.
The ball continued until the early hours of the morning. Squire Moreland claimed several dances before settling himself on a settee near the punch table with Caroline beside him. Her efforts at escape brought frowns from Lady Deale, so she surrendered to the squire's nonstop monologue gracefully.
It was a simple matter to pretend to listen to him while watching the dance floor. A smile, a nod of the head, a motion of the fan... all showed attention while her mind was engaged elsewhere. Her feet ached from the tight slippers and she longed to kick them off and curl her bare feet under her. Worse, she was forced to watch guests sampling the food and drink while she sat there famished.
So many people, so many names! She gave up attempting to keep them straight. Most of the unmarried gentlemen were too young for her purpose. No boy still under his father's reins would do for a husband!
Squire Moreland was not unpleasant. He was well off, available, and from all indication, he could be easily snared. She could not discard him as a serious suitor.
A man's laughter rang out from across the room and she could not stop her head from turning. "Drummond," the squire scoffed. "Mark my words, that young pup will come to bad ends!"
"Oh. He seemed quite the gentleman when we danced," she answered. "And Aunt Elizabeth is very fond of 'im."
Moreland frowned. "Lizbet's a woman, for all her good sense. Easy prey to his type. I'll be blunt, my dear. The lad's got bad blood in him. A natural son, you know. His mother's a common sort, no doubt. Don't look for a sense of honor in James Drummond! All show and no staying power! You can't make a racehorse out of a cart pony, don't you know." He lay a gnarled hand on her knee. "You're hardly more than a child. I'd not expect you to know about men like that."
With what she hoped passed as a girlish blush, Charity pushed his hand away and twittered. "I'm sure I've not thought of Master Drummond that much at all. He's so... so young. I so prefer mature men." She kept her eyes down. Why did Jamie Drummond have to complicate her life? The squire was hers if she wanted him. The squire offered respectability and security. She'd be a fool to risk losing him for a handsome face. Wouldn't she?
She thought of the man her mother had settled for, middle-aged and thick about the middle. A middle man, Mam had called him, but a good man. Squire Moreland was such a man. Neither had ever laid claim to being handsome. Both were hardworking, plain men. Marrying the tavern owner had taken Mam off the streets and made an honest woman of a working girl. Marrying the squire would do the same for a runaway bond servant.
Squire Moreland was more than Charity had hoped for on the long voyage from England. He was kind. Elizabeth had said he had been generous to his dead wife and was fair to his neighbors. So she must add that to his list of assets. His health seemed adequate. The man she chose must be fit if she were to have a child.
A vision of the squire in nightgown and cap danced across her mind's eye and she sat bolt upright. Her blush this time was genuine! She stammered something to cover her confusion. The fan slipped from her fingers and the squire bent to pick it up. Over his broad back, she glimpsed Jamie dancing with a girl in a red dress. His eyes met hers and he winked conspiratorially.
Tomorrow morning, he mouthed silently. The amusement in his eyes was maddening.
* * *
His cinnamon-brown eyes still mocked her as Charity allowed Jamie Drummond to help her mount the dapple-gray mare. Involuntarily, she stiffened and gripped the reins too tightly. The mare sensed her nervousness and twitched an ear.
Tender Fortune Page 4