Falcon's face was carved from granite. "You may go, Gaspar."
With a stiff bow, the servant left.
Nicola clasped her palms together in panicked supplication. "I beg you, do not pummel him, milord."
"If he continues with that infernal yelling, no amount of feminine wiles can stop me."
Feminine wiles? She didn't know whether to be amused or insulted by his words. At least he'd noticed she was a woman—more than she could say of many men of her acquaintance. But did he actually think her capable of exercising feminine wiles, or was he making jest of her plainness?
She wished she could stop the tremble in her voice as easily as the one in her hands. "Wh-what are you going to-to do?"
"After his beating?" He shrugged. "Deport him."
A lump lodged in her throat. What could she do to prevent such devastating punishment? Not only would Ramsey be ruined, she feared her father would die of sorrow. She ran her hand desperately over her indispensable, trying to feel the little Callers, but could detect nothing tangible. "What now?" she whispered to them. "I need you."
Silence rolled over her like a heavy mist.
"You need me?"
She wasn't sure whether that was amazement or amusement coloring his voice, but she had no doubt embarrassment was coloring her cheeks. "Ah... mmm... that is, I need you to release Ramsey and forget this whole episode."
He continued to look at her, rubbing his chin as if she were a strange puzzle he was trying to solve. "Tell me, do you always talk to yourself?"
"Not until tonight," she muttered, and then threw him a look of appeal. "Please, don't be harsh on Ramsey. He's a young man with noble ideals to save the stockingers, as misdirected as his deeds may be. Surely you were young and reckless at one time."
"We are not discussing my deeds, but your cousin's. He is a born criminal."
"No, he isn't. You are too austere in your judgment."
He held up the axe and ran a finger along the blade's sharp edge. "I should have your cousin deported."
"But surely you can see that is too extreme." She stepped toward him and grasped the edge of his greatcoat. "Can't you think of something less severe? Perhaps he could do chores without wages, such as bookkeeping."
"After his attempt to destroy my property?" Falconwood's dark brows beetled with his scowl. "That machinery took years to develop."
"I'm pleading with you, don't be too harsh. He's from a good family. I think your apprehension and keeping him overnight in your offices will be enough to cure him of his wayward actions."
"I do not agree." He glanced at her fingers, and she realized she still clutched his greatcoat.
Self-consciously, she released him and rubbed her damp palms along her skirt. "Then perhaps have him do something loathsome. Why, he could muck out your stables for as long as you believe is appropriate. That would have a lasting effect on any young man who has not experienced such dreadful duty."
"I'm not convinced."
"He could... labor in one of your mills. A young man accustomed to leisure would repent doing work like that."
"I would rather see him deported."
A load of bricks seemed to land on her. She extended one hand in a last supplicating gesture. "I'm certain we can come to a more appealing agreement, one that would satisfy your need for justice without such catastrophic consequences."
Falconwood leaned against the table, crossing one ankle over the other, and regarded her with his slate-colored gaze. "As a matter of fact," he said in a languid drawl, "there is something I find more appealing. Or, more precisely, someone."
His gaze sent shivers of dread skittering down Nicola's spine. There was no need for panic, she assured herself. He couldn't possibly mean—He could never want—She was simply overreacting. After all, he was the Earl of Falconwood, and she—she was plain Nicola Moore, an upstart who used to be a stockinger's daughter who now claimed to be middle class. Now at twenty-three, she was a tomboy with an uncouth manner and a propensity of getting her hands dirty. No, he couldn't conceivably want anything from her.
She drew a deep breath, and then forced a casual note into her voice. "And who would that be?"
"You."
That deep breath disappeared, leaving her lungs tight. "I-I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. I want you. If you refuse, I will see that your cousin is deported to the far reaches of New South Wales."
"You mean, as in you and me? Together? I mean, you want me to-to... " she asked, her voice squeaking so badly she couldn't finish the sentence.
He pinned her with his gaze. "Allow me to be more precise, Miss Moore. I want you to be my wife."
Chapter 4
"Your wife?" Nicola exclaimed. She was more surprised than when she'd discovered the Callers. Dismay swept over her. What could he be thinking to propose marriage to her? Did he realize what he was saying? Could it be that he was... attracted to her? Was he the one the Callers wanted for her spouse-to-be, so the union could supposedly help England to win a war that hadn't even begun?
She stared at his darkly handsome face with its high cheekbones and mesmerizing eyes. He leaned against a worktable, his hands supporting him on either side, his greatcoat open, his lean, powerful legs crossed at the ankles. The sculpted contours of his chest were clearly delineated under the white shirt, making her mouth go dry. A strange shortness of breath assailed her.
This was the pixies' doing. Under no conditions would an earl with his stature in life want to marry a girl who had been born into poverty, a girl without property or prestige. She would wager the pixies—Glissando in particular—had cast a spell on Falconwood. Because of the pixies, Falconwood couldn't see that her short, stubby nose was sprinkled with ghastly freckles, and that her hair was an unseemly barley-color blond.
And why would he trap her into marriage? Threaten her dear cousin with deportation in order to force her to his will? It plum didn't make sense. The notion that he really wanted her was so absurd, she had to laugh.
Falcon's gaze flicked over her. "I admit you'll make an outrageous countess."
As she absently noted how the light from the lantern painted strange patterns on his austere face, she supposed she should be insulted that he would have such a low opinion of her. But how could she when his statement was all too true. She would make an outrageous countess, not only in society's eyes but in her own. Why, she didn't know the first thing about being nobility. His obvious reluctance only confused her more. "Why do you propose such an unacceptable arrangement?"
He retrieved his lamp and set it on a nearby table. Seating himself on the edge, he gave her a thoughtful glance. "Perhaps because you amuse me."
What was his motive? She studied him in the darkened room but could see only the gleam of his eyes and the stark outline of his cheekbones. She scowled, irritated to no end by his casual disregard. "Ah, you're jesting, then, and I don't find it the least bit entertaining."
"Am I smiling? Do I look the sort who would jest?"
She gazed into his fathomless eyes and noted the grim set of his lips, and a nervous tremor rippled down her spine. "No, you don't appear the jolly sort at all. Then it's true? You really want to wed me?" At his unwavering stare, she blurted, "But for heaven's sake, why?"
Her mind reeled with the notion of marriage to such an intimidating man. Even when he'd been a lad, he'd been much too worldly... much too out of her realm of experience—she never would have thought to talk to him, much less even nod as she passed him in the street.
Unease rippled down her back as he continued to watch without answering.
"Why not?" He gave her an appraising perusal and she knew he found her wanting. She had never been the kind to incite poetry or love. As a matter of fact, she had been known to be bad luck for men. She recalled two who had been briefly attracted to her. One had tried to steal a kiss from her, but when she dodged, she accidently tripped him—which resulted in him breaking his nose. Another short-lived suitor lost control of h
is team when a fox darted in the road and wrecked his carriage. His peers had never allowed him to live down the fact that she was the one who'd devised the pulley system to lift the wheel off him. No, men found her too intelligent, too manly and simply too intimidating to even consider as a wife.
Falcon continued to observe her with his head tilted to one side. "I like the unusual."
"I beg your pardon. I am a proper woman with decent morals. I merely don't see what advantage you will gain by forcing matrimony."
"Unusual. A woman who doesn't know her true value." His full lips twisted in a derisive smile.
She tossed her head. "For the man who loves me, I would be his treasure trove."
He continued to lounge against the worktable. "So? Is it wedding bells for you or New South Wales for your cousin?"
That he would threaten Ramsey caused her to shake. She wanted to jump on his back as she had done with that portly merchant and pummel him, pull his hat over his eyes. But he didn't have a hat, she realized almost hysterically. In addition to that, she had a feeling the action wouldn't improve her predicament, and Falcon wouldn't be as easy to overcome. She couldn't merely run away, and that made little engines rumble under her skin. "You still haven't told me why you wish to wed me."
He flicked at something on his waistcoat. "I want your father's dye."
"The Clockwork Blue?" she squeaked. She realized her mouth was agape and tightened her jaw. Disappointment crashed over her at the realization that he merely wanted to use her to gain control over the dye. What an idiot she had been to think for even a fraction of a moment that he would ever be attracted to her.
He raised his brows. "Does your father have other new dyes of which I'm not aware?"
"No." I don't, she wanted to add. The incredulity of the situation struck her. Amazing that her talent, which had saved the family from poverty, would also be her downfall in this loveless marriage if Falcon had his way. But the idea of him throwing away a chance to wed a debutante from the haute ton to marry her instead was so stunning that she discovered herself asking, "You want my inheritance."
"I do."
Baffled, she couldn't seem to find her tongue. He had money, lands and a title to go with them. Why would this greedy aristocrat crave her measly belongings? "You would go to such lengths to obtain the formula to my father's dye?" She emphasized father to remind herself of the ruse to the world.
He ran his gaze down her attire. "It is a coveted shade, and the populace is clamoring for it already. Your father was astute to send out samples to generate an interest. The color looks quite pretty with your hair in the light of evening, by the bye, although I miss your starfish."
The overbearing aristocrat didn't miss much. Anger filled her—both for Falconwood, and for her father, although the feeling toward her father wasn't really fair. But the marketing idea had been hers long ago, and now it was the noose around her neck. Now this self-serving fob was willing to ruin her cousin's life, not to mention hers, simply on a whim. The fact that Clockwork Blue was her invention in the first place left a bitter taste on her tongue. Being blackmailed for it was simply too much.
"My lord, don't you realize that I'm totally, and I mean absolutely, beneath your station? That I'm the daughter of a man who used to be a stockinger?" She began to pace in front of him to get her thoughts straight about what to tell him, subconsciously noting the worktables were approximately four feet across. "The first eight years of my childhood consisted of traveling from village to village in the shire as my father searched for work. If we were lucky, we rented a room for a while. Most of the time we slept under the trees."
Was he shocked? Repulsed, dismayed... fascinated? No, surely not. She stopped her restless pacing and gazed into eyes that suddenly gleamed with an emotion she couldn't name. It must be curiosity of a lifestyle he couldn't begin to understand. Perhaps she could convince him of her unworthiness and he would realize how foolish his quest had been. "When my father began peddling dyes, we were finally able to save enough money to purchase a cottage in Nottingham. Why, even though we've risen to the middle class by becoming dye makers, several merchant families consider my family below them. My father and I would be laughingstocks in your circles."
With abruptness, he smiled. "Yes. You and your family fit into my plans quite well."
It must have been that self-satisfied grin that transformed his face from intriguing to a thing of masculine beauty, which distracted her for a moment. Then his words registered. "Have you heard anything I've said? I've lived on the streets. I've peddled wares. I've handed out protest pamphlets. I'm a social pariah. You will be ostracized."
"Aren't I already? I say forget society and its rules. They are much too overrated."
"All right, this is ridiculous. The time and effort you expended to get me to this point amazes me, and I had to figure out your reason for going to such lengths, but you are impossible to understand. The solution is quite obvious. I'll sell the rights to the dye to you. Clocks, I'll even give the rights to you if it will keep me out of this loveless marriage."
"And you have say over what to do with your father's dye?"
There was the rub. Society wouldn't allow her to claim the dye as hers. At least etiquette allowed women to own shops, which was why she opened millinery a month ago. She had a modicum of control over her life through the shop.
"Well? Do you have administrative power over your father's business?"
"No," she replied, forcing out the word. "Why don't you simply approach my father with a business proposal?"
"Believe me, I've tried. He has rejected all my offers." Although she wasn't surprised to hear of her father's reaction, ire over his stubbornness flared within her. His disapproval of Falconwood was stronger even than Ramsey's. This was going to make her task of appeasing the Earl even more difficult. Her overzealous father. But what to do? His cough had worsened and he worried about dying and leaving her alone, unsettled without a husband with whom to share her life.
Panic that her father could be right, that he might die, crowded her chest for a moment. No, she wouldn't even contemplate such a tragedy, not anytime in the next few years. But didn't he understand that there were other dyes she could concoct? Although she tried to convince him she didn't need the dye as a dowry, he wouldn't listen. In fact, last time she brought up the subject he had such a coughing fit that she feared her would expire on the spot. Not about to give up, she decided to take another tactic. "Tell me your proposals."
"Does it matter? He discarded them."
Shoulders squared, she determined to regain some of the control that seemed to elude her grasp like fragile wisps of thread. "Allow me to persuade him otherwise."
"Is your father accustomed to consulting with women on matters of business?"
"My father consults with me. He has a deep fondness for me."
"Which explains your undisciplined nature." He frowned. "Unfortunately, his fondness doesn't qualify you as a bargainer."
Ha. As if he knew her qualifications. Little did he realize she was the mastermind behind her father's whole business. "I know my father. If you tell me what you offered so that I have a reference point on which to begin, I can determine what will satisfy him."
"Equal partnership," he said in a flat tone.
Her head swam. The situation was worse than she imagined. Papa's disapproval of the Earl ran much deeper than she had realized. Falcon's proposal was the most any man of business could offer. If only she'd been born man, she would have complete control of the dye house and any business dealings. "He actually refused?"
"Without blinking an eye."
Her heart tumbled to her stomach. What was she to do now?
The Earl placed his hands on his hips and gazed down his nose at her. "You are being unrealistic if you think you can persuade your father to do business with me. So you cannot wiggle out of marriage."
She rallied. "Perhaps we can yet avoid such an unwanted partnership. I have dealt previously with
my father on matters of this sort. If you give me time to study the situation, I'm certain I can discover something you have not attempted."
And in the meantime, I'll send Ramsey on an extended tour of the continent she decided with fierce conviction.
He watched her as she spoke, his silver gaze rapt. With slow, calculated movements, he pushed away from the table on which he had been leaning and approached. Highlights in his dark hair gleamed almost as brightly as the Clockwork Blue dye he so coveted. Combined with a hawk like nose, his high forehead and broad cheeks were quite impressive. It wouldn't surprise Nicola to hear that one of his ancestors had posed as a figurehead on an ancient coin, which only underscored the vast differences in their pedigrees. No way could she ever wed such an exalted man.
Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles) Page 5