The Heiress In His Bed

by Tamara Lejeune

  “What do you mean, he’s pawned things?” Viola asked curiously.

  “His watch! His beautiful saber and all his regimentals! Even his boots he pawned! Because of you, I shouldn’t wonder!” he added, seeped in deep resentment.

  “No, no,” Viola said impatiently. “What does it mean to pawn things? I’m not familiar with the term.”

  Hudson was taken aback by her ignorance. “Why, it means he’s given his treasures up to Mr Mordecai in the shop next door, in exchange for a small loan. If he can’t pay back the money, he loses his property. And Mr Mordecai is the landlord, too! We’re sure to be evicted.”

  “The landlord,” said Viola, clapping her bonnet back on her head. “Next door, you say? I’d like to have a word with him about my bedroom window.” She was out of the door before Hudson could even think to try to stop her.

  Viola had never met a Jew before, but she had read Ivanhoe, and so she was not at all apprehensive. In fact, she thought Mr Mordecai quite picturesque with his long gray beard and tiny little black cap. His shop was picturesque, too, being full of almost every sort of thing Viola could imagine. Clocks seemed to be most abundant, but there were also coats, hats, and umbrellas, musical instruments of all sorts, tapestries, tea sets, dressing cases, writing desks, and marble and china figures. Paintings and frames were stacked against the wall.

  “Good evening,” she called to the proprietor as he came out of the back room. “You’re open very late. Do you do much business this late in the evening?”

  “Sometimes yes, sometimes no,” answered Mr Mordecai, staring at the fashionable young lady almost in disbelief. She was not his usual clientele; when a lady wanted to pawn something, she usually sent a servant or a gentleman in her place. “Are you interested in a loan, madam?”

  “No, thank you. I’m Mrs Devize. If you are Mr Mordecai, then I am your tenant.”

  “I am Mr Mordecai,” he replied. “I did not know Captain Devize was married.”

  “It was immensely sudden,” said Viola. A marble statuette of Daphne and Apollo caught her eye, and she nearly lost her train of thought. “I understand the captain recently pawned a few things. They are not on display in your shop, I hope?”

  Mr Mordecai assured her that they were not. He went into the back room and emerged with a large box, which he placed on the counter. “You may inspect the contents, Mrs Devize,” he invited her.

  Opening the box, Viola found a silver pocket watch, a razor with an ivory handle, and a string of silver buttons, all stuffed into an enameled shako bearing the silver badge of Julian’s regiment. At the bottom of the box, wrapped in tissue, was a scarlet coat with gold braid and orange facings. With it was the saber of an officer sheathed in a battered scabbard.

  “How much did you lend him?” Viola asked, touching each of these interesting things in turn.

  “Fifty pounds,” he replied. “Oh, it isn’t worth that much, I know, but he’s a good sort, and he said he needed the money very badly. Now that I see you, I understand.”

  The compliment pleased Viola. “I can see you are looking after his property very well, Mr Mordecai,” she said, closing the box. “He will pay you very soon, I’m sure.”

  His bushy brows went up. “You have not come to repay your husband’s loan?” Judging by her clothes and jewels, she could have done so easily, in his estimation.

  “Lord, no,” said Viola, quite scandalized by the suggestion. “The captain wouldn’t like that at all. He will pay you himself. I’ve come about our bedroom window. There’s no glass in it, Mr Mordecai, only brown paper. Brown paper is not sufficient. We must have the glazier.”

  Mr Mordecai was surprised. “The captain has not complained.”

  “I daresay he is accustomed to cold rooms, but I am not.”

  “The window will be repaired, Mrs Devize, first thing in the morning,” he promised her.

  “Thank you,” said Viola, looking around the shop.

  He looked at her curiously. “Was there something else, madam?”

  “No,” said Viola. “Not really. I must say, you have quite an interesting shop. It reminds me of my grandmother’s attic. That coat in the corner…Is it very old?”

  Mr Mordecai instantly went to the coat rack she indicated. “This one, madam?”

  “No, the spotted fur,” Viola said eagerly, unbuttoning the coat she was wearing.

  Mr Mordecai brought the leopard-skin coat to her. It was double-breasted with a long skirt, beautifully lined in black satin. Viola reached for it like an eager child, letting the coat she was wearing fall to the floor.

  “This coat,” he told her as he helped her into the sumptuous fur, “belonged to a Russian prince. He committed suicide over a woman, and never came back for it.”

  “He must have been a small man—it fits me perfectly,” Viola said, going over to a tall mirror to admire herself. To her delight, the coat looked as delicious as it felt. “I’ll take it, Mr Mordecai. Where do I sign?”

  Mr Mordecai looked perplexed. “Sign, madam?” he echoed. “Oh, you mean the credit. I’m afraid I cannot offer you credit, Mrs Devize. The captain, your husband, is in debt to me.”

  Viola was aghast. “You mean I cannot have this coat, Mr Mordecai?” she cried.

  “Perhaps we could come to an arrangement,” he said, looking at her thoughtfully. “These earrings that you are wearing…They are pearls, yes?”

  Viola’s hand went to her ears. “These were my mother’s,” she said. His eyes widened in surprise as she opened the coat to unpin a brooch. “What about this? It’s set with diamonds.”

  Mr Mordecai took out his loupe and examined the brooch carefully.

  “Is it enough for the coat?” Viola asked anxiously.

  “Yes,” he said, almost breathlessly. “More than enough, I should think.”

  “I’ll wear it out, Mr Mordecai,” she said happily.

  Julian was a little late returning home that night. His day had been tiring and unpleasant. Fortunes had been won and lost on the Stock Exchange that day. Julian found himself blamed for every loss, but never credited for any gains. He knew he had made a few enemies, but he was quite surprised when, at the sound of the closing bell, he was chased down the steps by a mob of angry stockjobbers hurling insults, accusations, and threats. Indeed, he was fortunate they hurled nothing worse. In Change Alley he managed to elude them by darting into Garraway’s tavern and out the back door. Just in case his colleagues turned violent, he took the long way home.

  All was quiet at No. 32, but Hudson pounced on him the moment he walked in the door.

  “Captain! Thank God you’re home.”

  Julian was instantly concerned; Hudson did not usually wait up for him. “What’s the matter?” he demanded, his thoughts instantly going to Mary. In a second, he imagined all sorts of calamities. “Has something happened to Mrs Devize? She’s not still out?”

  “She’s here,” Hudson glowered. “Safe. But she’s bought out all the shops,” he complained. “She was out all day, Captain, and half the night, too. And when she came back, looking like butter wouldn’t melt, she was wearing a different dress! I know it’s not my place to say, Captain, but that female is no good.”

  “You’re right, Hudson,” Julian said sharply. “It’s not your place.”

  “I cannot hold my tongue,” Hudson said stubbornly. “I’ve watched over you for too many years to see you ruined—yes, ruined!—by the likes of her. I don’t know how she prevailed upon you to marry her…Well, I suppose I do know,” he added with loathing.

  “Careful!” Julian interrupted. “You’ve said quite enough, Hudson. Another word on the subject, and I shall dismiss you,” he warned.

  “Good evening, Captain,” Viola called down to him from the top of the stairs.

  Julian looked at her, his eyes warm with approval. She was wearing a white dress that to him at least appeared very simple, just the sort of dress a country vicar’s daughter ought to wear, if she had the figure for it. A single s
trand of pearls was clasped at her throat, her only ornament. Part of her black hair had been pinned up loosely; the rest was allowed to tumble down her back.

  “Go to bed, Hudson,” Julian said softly, his eyes glued to Viola.

  “Yes,” said Viola. “Go to bed. I will look after the captain this evening.”

  Hudson took one look at Julian’s face and knew the young man was lost. He descended to the kitchen, shaking his head.

  For a moment, the two young people only looked at each other, each taking pleasure in the physical beauty of the other. Viola broke the silence. “What a day this has been,” she remarked lightly. “I feel as though I’ve gone around the world and back again!”

  “You must have missed me terribly,” he said, starting up the stairs.

  Viola laughed. “I only came back to find out what happened to poor Mr Parsley.”

  “Parsley?” he growled. Joining her on the landing, he pulled her into his arms. When she made no objection, his hands traveled up her back to her shoulders, pulling her closer still.

  “Don’t tease me,” she said, her lips scarcely an inch from his. Proximity made them both breathless. “I have been most anxious about the poor man all day.”

  “Have you?” he said softly, drinking in her fragrance. “Then let me put your mind at ease. Parsley is safe.”

  His breath on her neck made her shiver. “Hurrah,” she said faintly.

  “I bought back all his shares. Now he is rich, and I am poor.”

  “How poor?” she wanted to know.

  “Very poor.”

  “That was not very clever of you,” she observed.

  “Oh, but in six months, I shall be very rich indeed. If you decide to marry me, you will be a very rich woman, my love,” he added, his arms tightening around her.

  “In six months?” she laughed. “Mr Devize, are you asking me to speculate?”

  “In six months, I will be so rich, you will not be able to get near me,” he warned her. “Every eligible maiden in the kingdom will be in hot pursuit of me. Now is your chance.”

  “Then I’d better take it,” she said. She spoke lightly, but her dark eyes left him in no doubt of her acceptance.

  “Dear girl,” he said huskily.

  “I have just condescended to throw myself away on you, sir,” she chided him. “A Yorkshireman would be sufficiently moved to show a little gratitude, if not affection.”

  Julian instantly claimed her mouth. Viola, already in his arms, melted against him with a sigh of contentment. The silence was long and sweet, tinged with fire. He kissed her beyond decency, his hands brushing lightly against her breasts, his tongue exploring her mouth until her lips burned. Unschooled, she did little in response, but she did not stop him. He had to stop himself. “If you’re not careful,” he murmured shakily, “you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

  “But it’s so pleasant to get more than one bargains for,” she said sensibly. “One hates to get less.”

  “I meant,” he told her as sternly as he could, “we are not yet man and wife. You mustn’t tempt me. It isn’t kind. I am not made of stone, you know.”

  Very firmly, he put her away from him.

  “I’m so glad,” said Viola. “I wouldn’t like a stone for a husband.”

  “This morning, you swore you wouldn’t have me at all,” he reminded her. “What changed your mind?”

  Viola smiled. “Let’s just say I put our time apart to good use.”

  “They do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “And the fastest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Are you hungry? Your dinner is on the table,” she added proudly. “I’m practicing to be a wife, you see.”

  “I haven’t got a table,” he said.

  “Of course you have a table,” she told him. “It’s in front of the fireplace. No, not that room,” she said quickly as he started for his study. “I’m not finished in there. This one,” she said, leading him by the hand into the bedroom.

  Julian followed her into a room he didn’t recognize, a room dominated by a huge four-poster bed, each of the posts being larger than himself. The hangings over this bed made it look rather like the battle pavilion of some medieval king. Deep blue velvet curtains covered the window, and most of the walls. A hunting scene in a magnificent gilt frame hung over the fireplace, almost dwarfing the chimneypiece. A huge ormolu clock ticked away on the mantel. An Aubusson rug covered the entire floor. A small table, covered in a fine white linen cloth and laden with covered dishes, had been set up in front of the fire. In lieu of chairs, a pale blue sofa, just big enough for two very intimate people, had been placed behind the table, its high back touching the foot of the bed.

  For all the wrong reasons, he was breathless. Visions of debtor’s prison appeared before his eyes. He hardly noticed as she peeled the coat from his shoulders, leaving him in his waistcoat and shirt sleeves. “Woman, what have you done?” he whispered.

  “Do you like it?” she asked behind him, sounding quite pleased with herself. “It is a sweet room now, is it not? All the creature comforts. The curtains quite keep out the cold. We can even close the curtains on the bed for additional…warmth.”

  Julian went to the table and picked up a bottle of wine: an antebellum Beaujolais, cripplingly expensive. Worse yet, it had already been opened, and so could not be sent back to the vintner. “I have but two questions,” he said coldly, replacing the bottle on the table. “How much did all this cost? And how am I to afford it? The bed alone must have cost twenty pounds!”

  “Nothing like!” she hastened to assure him. “It’s not new, you know. None of it is new, except the food, of course.”

  Julian began to breathe again. “Secondhand? Good. All the same, it must have been very expensive,” he insisted. “How much do I owe?”

  “Nothing,” Viola said proudly. “It’s all paid for. I pawn-broked some of my jewelry.”

  Julian was thunderstruck. “You what?” he said, strong displeasure in his voice.

  “Did I say it wrong?” she asked innocently.

  “You pawned your jewelry? Mary!”

  “I went to see Mr Mordecai about our window. One thing led to another, and, before I knew it, I was pawning things like a Londoner. I got all this, and the most smashing fur coat you ever set eyes on.”

  Julian sighed. “You should never have gone to see Mr Mordecai. The window is my responsibility.” His masculine pride had been injured, and he lashed out at her. “You should not have pawned anything. I don’t like it, Mary.”

  “Why not? You did it—he showed me your regimentals. Very pretty.”

  “You did not repay my loan,” he said, firing up with real anger. “Tell me you didn’t!”

  “Well, of course I didn’t,” Viola snapped. “I felt instinctively that you would want to do it yourself with your own money. Besides, as you know, I’m very selfish. I couldn’t be bothered!”

  “I don’t want you pawning things,” Julian grumbled. “It unmans me.”

  “Does it really?” she asked curiously. “Why?”

  “It implies you have no faith in me,” he complained. “I’ve got something in the works, you know. I’ll be able to look after you very well, very soon.”

  “In six months.”

  “Yes, six months!” he said angrily. “This will all have to go back. I will deal with Mr Mordecai in the morning.”

  “No!” said Viola. “I don’t know your views on the subject, but I’d much rather have a comfortable bed than a diamond brooch—if one must choose, that is.”

  “That is my point. You should not have to choose. I will get your brooch back for you.”

  “I don’t care three straws for that silly old brooch!” Viola said impatiently. “I want a comfortable bed. I want good food to eat. I’ve worked very hard on this dinner, and you’re spoiling it,” she accused him. “I think you’re being very mean and petty. After all, it was my brooch, not yours. I can do with it what I like.
You’re not my lord and master.”

  Julian blinked at her. “You’re right,” he said presently. “I’m sorry. I should be thanking you instead of haranguing you. I’ll go and wash up. When I return, I will be a different man.”

  Viola forgave him instantly. “There’s hot water in the dressing room.”

  When he returned, Viola was removing the cover from the main dish. As she moved in front of the fire, parts of her dress became wholly transparent, and her body was outlined in red. Desire pealed in his body like alarm bells. Julian caught his breath as she looked up and smiled.

  “Sit down,” she invited him. “Will you pour the wine while I cut the pie? Men are the worst pie cutters in nature, I have noticed.”

  Julian sank mutely onto the sofa. It was covered in pale blue satin. It had been years since he had felt the icy smoothness of satin. The pleasure was absurdly keen. He stroked the fabric absently as he watched Viola cut the pie with unhurried grace. He no longer felt hungry in the least. Not for food, anyway.

  He forced himself to speak. “What sort of pie is it?”

  “Pheasant, topped with morello cherries and drenched in brandy.”

  Julian’s stomach rumbled as she placed the dish before him.

  “Shall I pour the wine, too?” she asked, laughing at him.

  “Yes, please,” he said almost meekly.

  Viola cut a slice of pie for herself and sat down on the sofa to watch him eat. “How is it?” she asked as he paused to reach for his wine.

  “Delicious!” Julian answered, gulping the Beaujolais. “You’re an excellent cook, Mary.”

  Viola frowned at him. “I don’t cook, Mr Devize,” she said severely. “I’ll have you know I was very carefully brought up. I should have thought that was obvious.”

  “I beg your pardon,” he said contritely. “Was it Cork?”

  Her frown deepened. “Cork? No, Mr Devize. I went all the way to Piccadilly and got your favorite meal for you, and this is the thanks I get?”

  Julian paused to reevaluate his meal. “Is this my favorite meal?”

  “It’s what your grandmother sent you every month when the war was on,” she told him.