She and Lucy continued on at the factory as weavers. Lucy grew into a pretty girl with green eyes and yellow hair, and when she began to grow into her curves, the lads took notice of her. Doreen tried to do her best by Lucy—she warned the girl what men were about, but the lass never seemed to hear her. The girl was only thirteen when the overseer’s son took her out behind the factory and showed her what a man did to a woman. She was only fourteen when another lad got a child on her. And she was all of fifteen when she and that baby died in her dirty old cot, neither of them able to separate from the other as they ought.
When Lucy died, Doreen felt as if she’d lost her right arm, but she went back to work the next day just as she always had. She let the new overseer tell her that she was late and owed a fine for it, and let the other women steal the bread from her bucket so they’d have enough to feed their children that night. She let the whole world roll over her day after day, feeling nothing. She’d smile when the fancy ladies came to do their charity work, feeling nothing at the looks of appalled revulsion as they passed by. She let the overseer maul her breast when he wanted, feeling nothing when his rank breath filled her lungs. She moved down the line when a new woman came and wanted her spot at the carding station. She just felt … nothing.
Until one cold, wintry morning. Doreen reckoned she would never know what changed between the time she went to sleep and the time she woke. But she felt different when the whistle blew and it was time to start work. She knew she was different when the new woman told her to move and she pretended not to hear her. She knew she was different when the charity ladies appeared, all shiny in their fancy clothes and jewels, and she scowled at them as they passed. And when the overseer told her she’d have to man one of the big spooling machines that caught and tore her skirts, Doreen heard herself say no. She stood up, looked the little man square in the eye, and just said no. The overseer didn’t believe his ears, and he took out the stick he used when the women didn’t do what he wanted, and struck her hard across the shoulders. But Doreen just said no again, only louder, and the man might have beaten her to death if the angel hadn’t come and taken her away.
Of course she knew it wasn’t a real angel. She was one of those charity ladies, with pretty grayish eyes and dark auburn hair and a gown made of fabric so fine that Doreen had never seen anything like it. She had put her hand on Doreen. None of the charity ladies ever touched her when they came to look around. But the angel put her hand on Doreen, helped her to her feet, and Doreen had walked out of that factory for the last time.
The angel had brought her to a tidy little town house on Upper Moreland Street, far from the factories. That had been a year ago, and Doreen had been at the little town house ever since, because Miss Claudia had asked her to stay and look after it. In the course of the year, several other women had come and gone, all down on their luck, some of them bruised, others just needing a place to keep their children safe for a time until they could figure out how they were going to feed them. The house was a secret for the most part because Miss Claudia said there were times a woman needed to find her bearings without her man or the magistrate or the overseer interfering. That was the one rule she had for the house: Any woman who stayed had to promise she wouldn’t tell a soul about it, unless that soul was another woman in need.
Doreen kept the little house clean, made sure everyone had plenty of food and a clean bed to sleep on, and in exchange for that, Miss Claudia gave her a monthly stipend. But it was too generous to Doreen’s way of thinking, so she spent her evenings doing the piecework, hoping someday she could repay Miss Claudia for all her kindness. She doubted there was enough coin in all of London to do that, but she worked at it all the same.
And she was working the afternoon she saw Miss Claudia’s carriage pull up to the curb. She paused and watched her alight, taking the box the driver handed her. A frown creased Doreen’s brow; something was different since Miss Claudia had come back from France. Oh, she still smiled that sweet smile of hers, but there was a distant look to her eyes and a bit of hesitation in her speech. It was almost as if her mind was in another world. It was none of Doreen’s affair, but nonetheless, she had a notion of what ailed her—she hadn’t worked around women all her life not to know a thing or two about them.
“Good morning, Doreen!” Miss Claudia called cheerfully as she stepped inside.
“It’s afternoon. You’ve a fever?” Doreen asked, folding her arms across her chest.
Miss Claudia looked startled. “A fever? Of course not,” she said, and laughed.
“You don’t look quite right. Haven’t since you come back,” Doreen insisted.
“I am quite well, I assure you,” she said, and swept into the parlor, where she set the box down. She removed her bonnet, let it dangle from her hand for a moment as she stared into space. “Oh my, the chair has not yet been repaired? I asked Mr. Walford to come by as soon as possible,” she said, and absently dropped her bonnet. On the floor.
“Mr. Walford says he will come on the morrow—”
“He said the same on Monday—”
“He’ll come when he’s the time. Sit now, while I pour you some tea,” Doreen insisted, but Miss Claudia ignored her. She set the broken chair upside down and attempted to screw the leg in herself. “It would seem rather easy, yet I can’t seem to make the leg fit properly.”
“I’ve already tried. That chair needs a man’s hand.” She glanced at Miss Claudia from the corner of her eye as she stared, hands on hips, at the chair. “Same for you, truth be told.”
With a startled gasp, Miss Claudia gaped at Doreen. “I beg your pardon?”
Doreen flashed a rare, gap-toothed smile. “Ain’t none of my affair, miss, but you’ve got that look about you if you don’t mind me saying—have since you come back from France,” she said, and calmly poured a cup of tea.
“That look? What look?” Claudia demanded as she marched across the room to accept the cup of tea Doreen offered her.
“That look. The one a woman gets when a man has gotten in her head and she can’t shake him out.” The suggestion was enough to make Miss Claudia turn a bright shade of pink, and Doreen sank into a chair, bracing her hands on her knees. “I’ll be. It is a man!” she exclaimed, grinning.
“No,” Miss Claudia said with an emphatic shake of her head.
“Who’s the bloke?” Doreen asked, cheerfully ignoring the denial.
The pink in Miss Claudia’s cheeks turned red. “There is no man, Doreen!”
“One of those high and mighty lords in Mayfair, ain’t he? Ooh, I’ll wager he’s a handsome one, too. Sure, all those lords are handsome. Blimey, some dandy has set his cap on you, ain’t he?”
Claudia’s teacup rattled on the chipped saucer; she hastily put it down. “You’ve a vivid imagination, Doreen!” she said, and laughed as she self-consciously fumbled with her sleeve.
“Bloody hell, the gent has you by the tail!” Doreen exclaimed gleefully. “Well, I’m glad for it. A pretty woman like you ought to be married. Aye, a woman like you is what those dandies want in a wife.”
Claudia stood, looked around the room, then suddenly sat again. “I … I forgot to ask. Is there anything you need?”
Doreen laughed for the first time in a long time. Miss Claudia was always so confident, so poised—exactly how Doreen imagined the queen to be. Yet at the mere mention of a chap she was a basket of nerves. “We’ve more than enough,” she said, still chuckling, and nodded toward the box. “I reckon we fare as well as the king here. You needn’t worry about us.”
Claudia glanced at the box. “Yes. Well! There you have it, then!” She smiled brightly—too brightly—and fairly vaulted out of her chair. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay.” She walked out of the parlor. Without her bonnet.
Doreen picked it up and followed her to the front door. Miss Claudia yanked it open and barely glanced at Doreen over her shoulder. “I shall call again within a few days—”
“Aye. Want your bonnet?
” she asked, smiling again when Claudia flushed and snatched it from her hand. She pivoted on her heel and marched down the little stoop toward the waiting carriage, springing inside before the driver could get down to help her. Doreen smiled and waved, chuckling delightedly when the young woman refused to meet her gaze as the carriage pulled away from the curb.
Was it so bloody obvious? Claudia yanked her hand from her glove and pressed it to her cheek, feeling the heat of mortification seep through her skin as the carriage bounced along the pitted street. Apparently so, if Doreen Conner noticed it. This was unbelievable! Not a month ago, she had been very happy with her work, undaunted by society’s skepticism and her father’s increasing talk of marriage. She had been perfectly content, had wished only to visit Eugenie and rest for a time before she tackled the school project. And she had felt perfectly safe to do so because Eugenie said he never came to France—she had written that explicitly in one of her letters, said that Kettering “did not care for Frogs!”
Well, The Rake apparently did not have such a great aversion to the French, because there he had appeared next to Eugenie’s fountain, as big and bold as ever. His sudden and unexpected appearance had unnerved her so badly that she could scarcely think what to do. So she had done the thing she had been taught in ballrooms across London.
She cut him.
Directly, indirectly, every way she could think of, until he had finally left Château la Claire.
Naturally, she had thought she had escaped. But oh no—the battle had only begun. It was a battle, all right. He had started it aboard the Maiden’s Heart, proving himself a paragon of obnoxious male behavior—in spite of the fire he had lit in her belly. Thank God she had come to her senses and ended that for the ridiculous moment that it was! And if he had any doubts about just how absurd she found it, they should have been dispelled altogether when the very next day she took his coach and left him standing in the rain at Newhaven … cursing quite loudly, as she recalled.
But no! Oh no, no, no. First, he had sent that massive bouquet of flowers, one so large and ostentatious that even her father—who usually noticed only those things that had to do with the king or his own fastidious appearance—had commented on them, taking the opportunity to remind her that at five and twenty, her opportunities for a good match were fading. As that had sufficiently humiliated her, she had sent Earl Libertine’s bouquet to the inmates at Chelsea Hospital.
With any other man, that slight would have ended it. But not Kettering. Even at Ann’s gathering, when she seized the opportunity to tell him openly and plainly what she had done, he had remained irritatingly unperturbed. So she had, therefore, proceeded to ignore him—not that he could possibly have noticed, what with Ladies Wentworth and Dillbey and the horrid Miss Early practically drooling all over him.
That night, naturally, had been followed by his sudden and divine appearance at Sunday service, where his inexplicable attendance was eclipsed only by the arrival of the jeweler’s box later that afternoon, containing a bracelet from which a dozen or more French centimes dangled. There was no accompanying note.
The bracelet was sent to Kettering House on St. James Square early the next morning—with a note.
Kettering, you do me a grave insult by continuing to insist on the reimbursement of a rather inexpensive bottle of wine and a wheel of cheese, particularly when said wine was sour and the cheese more aptly described as offal. Please desist from sending any other tokens of your appreciation, sir.
C. Whitney
By mid-afternoon, Claudia had received two bottles of very expensive French wine and a wheel of Swiss cheese stamped with the royal order of William IV. Deciding Kettering’s largesse would be much more appreciated among Doreen’s charges than in her father’s house, Claudia had brought it to the Upper Moreland Street house, but God in heaven, she could not escape him even there!
Well, her next note would surely end it. Even a ruthless charmer like Kettering would stop this game if she was unwilling to participate in it, and she would make that abundantly clear. He would stop, and Doreen would not laugh so gleefully, and she could concentrate on her school.
Feeling hardly assured, Claudia turned her attention to the window and realized they were on Regent Street. Ann had told her about a new modiste, and Claudia was suddenly of a mind to pay the shop a call. She rapped on the ceiling, instructed Harvey where to pull over, and alighted from the carriage in front of the shop. Clasping her hands behind her back, she stopped in front of the large bowed windows, closely perusing the latest fabrics newly arrived from Holland. As she studied a blue silk, a shadow filled the corner of the window. Suddenly aware of someone directly behind her, Claudia started and whirled about, almost colliding with his brick wall of a chest.
Julian grinned, leaned over her shoulder to peer in the window, and casually remarked, “The royal blue would look very well on you. It is really the only color that could do full justice to the beauty of your eyes, I think.”
Clapping a gloved hand over her thundering heart, Claudia gaped at him. “Are you following me?” she demanded.
He laughed a rich, deep laugh as he reached for her hand, carelessly peeling it away from her heart. “My love, if I were following you, I would choose a more enticing time and place, believe me.” The corner of his mouth curved upward; his gaze dropped to her lips. “But never doubt that the moment you beckon, I will follow.” And then he turned her hand over, found the little circle above the buttons where the material didn’t meet, and kissed her wrist. Arrogantly, openly, and very leisurely, he kissed her wrist right there in the middle of Regent Street, in front of God, England, and a curious street sweeper who happened by.
A stream of fire spread up her arm and Claudia’s heart was suddenly in her throat. “Y-you may rest assured, I shall never beckon a rake!” she shot back, yanking her hand from his.
Still wearing that lazy grin, Julian stepped back, dipped his hat with a bow, and said, “Don’t be so certain of that. Good day, madam.”
And he was gone.
With a moan, Claudia sagged against the shop front. Why wouldn’t he just leave her be? She didn’t want his attentions! She wanted nothing to do with him, and Lord knew that Rake wanted nothing more from her than a tumble in the hay! That was, after all, the only thing Julian Dane ever wanted from women!
She was really almost seventy-five percent certain of it.
Seven
THIS GAME OF chase had become serious.
A bespectacled Julian stepped up into a coach emblazoned with the Kettering coat of arms and settled against the lush velvet squabs. Dressed in a coat of midnight blue and dove gray waistcoat and trousers, he felt a bit like a dandy in the middle of the afternoon—but then again, he rarely attended high teas, of all things. The invitation to this fundraising event was Ann’s, really, but one he brazenly had determined extended to him. But now he was wondering why, exactly, he was doing this.
That was easy, wasn’t it? For the moment, the alluring Claudia Whitney gave him something to think about other than Sophie’s moping. Unfortunately for that little nitwit, Julian had learned from Aunt Violet that in his absence, Stanwood had paid not one but three calls, the last one more than an hour in duration. That discovery had prompted another row with Sophie that ended with her refusing to come down to supper or speak to him at all.
All right, there was that, but there was also the plain truth that he was quite intrigued by this game.
How could he not be? Claudia was such an enigma! She returned his gifts with acerbic little notes that kept him chuckling for days afterward. When he had encountered her leaving Ann’s one afternoon, she pretended not to see him, practically vaulting into Redbourne’s coach like a circus acrobat even though he stood almost directly in front of her and wished her a good day. And she had flushed a lovely shade of pink when he had kissed her wrist on Regent Street before snapping at him. All in all, the woman was simply refusing to succumb to his charm.
And that was unh
eard of in this town.
Julian shifted uncomfortably against the squabs. Those were the reasons he was all dressed up like a Christmas goose in broad daylight … but there was something else, too. Something that kept him awake at night, devoured him during the day, made him mad with the absolute burning need to just see her. God help him, but the image of her that had lived in his mind’s eye these last two years was suddenly vibrant and alive and seared into his heart with a kiss aboard the Maiden’s Heart.
Thankfully, it was only a short drive to Redbourne House. The footman who greeted him seemed to think his name alone was sufficient grounds for entry and showed Julian to the grand salon, where two dozen guests were already gathered. Julian recognized only a handful, including his sister Ann, who smiled and nodded at him from across the room, Lords Dillbey and Cheevers, and naturally, the object of his great desire, whom his gaze found almost the moment he crossed the threshold.
She was at the other end of the exceedingly large salon speaking to old Lord Montfort. Arrested by the sight of her, Julian stepped to one side of the south doors, his gaze riveted on her. She wore a gown of royal blue trimmed in silver and worn off her shoulders in the current style. Her hair was artfully twisted, held in place by a silver ribbon. Small sapphires sparkled at her lobes, and a simple sapphire pendant rested just above the swell of her bosom.
He rather thought he could stand there all day and look at her, drink her in, and when she suddenly smiled at Montfort, Julian was amazed at how easily she seemed to illuminate everything around her. Phillip had said that once, in the Fairchild ballroom—she illuminates everything around her.
A sharp pain stabbed at his side.
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