Duel of Hearts

by Anita Mills

  “No, but they are civilized—perhaps more so than we,” she went on. “We have walked in some crowded and disgusting places, and I have not yet seen a chimney sweep.”

  “Well, they are about, my dear, else how do they prevent fires?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll wager they do not send four- year-old children up burning chimneys—’tis only England that does so.”

  “No, I think you are wrong.”

  She turned those strange gray eyes of hers to his face. “But we consider ourselves so very civilized, do we not? Yet every day in London and Manchester and the rest of. our cities, children are beaten and maimed, starved and forced up chimneys, and if they survive very long, they choke from the soot and get great sores on their bodies that do not heal.”

  “I have never . . .” He had started to say he’d never employed a young chimney sweep, but then stopped, for he’d never noticed just who went up or down his chimneys.

  “You never see them, and neither does anyone else, Tony. Oh, maybe a reformer like Hannah More does, but she is more intent on making them God-fearing than on eliminating the problem itself.”

  “The law—”

  “The House of Lords blocks any useful law!” She caught herself and looked down to brush bread crumbs from the skirt of her muslin walking dress. “Your pardon, my lord—’tis not your fault alone.”

  “Thank you,” he observed sardonically. “I’d begun to think you meant to take me to task for the problem.”

  “But you could speak out, could you not?”

  “I have never attended Lords except when the Regent called Parliament into session last year, and I’ve never been tempted to speak out there. For one thing, I am neither a Whig nor a Tory, and for another, none of my friends go either.”

  “But it is your right! I mean, are you not entitled?”

  “Yes, but it does no good. I should be laughed out of the place if I rose to speak to a chamber full of old men. The power, my dear, rests in the Commons.”

  “The Lords have blocked every bill written to restrict the use of children as sweeps.”

  “I have no wish to sit in Paris discussing the woes of London, Leah,” he told her finally. “Especially when there is nothing I can do about the problem.”

  “But I thought a viscount could—”

  “You thought incorrectly then. Come, we’d best get back if we are to try for two places tonight.” He picked up a small stone that had come dislodged from the hill behind them and skipped it aimlessly across the water before rising to give her a hand.

  They walked back quietly, enjoying the sights of the Paris street on a spring day, seemingly unconscious of the fact that his hand had slipped from her elbow to twine in her fingers. Finally he broke the quiet by asking, “You still think me a frivolous fellow, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Actually, I think you are probably one of the best of your class.”

  “Now, there’s a dubious compliment if I ever heard one, Lady Lyndon.”

  “Well, I find I am enjoying your company more than I thought possible,” she admitted with a grin.

  “Which is nothing to the point, since you did not expect to enjoy it at all, my dear. I am learning to listen to what you do not say as well as to what you do.”

  “Alas, I am found out then.”

  “You know, Leah, I admit I did not think to wed you when I first … well, when I . . .”

  “When you offered me carte blanche,” she finished for him.

  “ ’Tis nothing I can take pride in, but yes. But you have proven to be a delight to me. I—”

  “Damme if it ain’t Lyndon! And this must be the latest light-o’-love!”

  Tony felt Leah’s fingers tense in his, and he was vexed beyond reason as he turned wrathfully to the pleasant-faced young lord who greeted them. “This is my wedding trip, Merville,” he growled. “Do you not read the English papers?”

  “Read you was engaged, but married? Naw—‘Tony Barsett’ll never get leg-shackled until they come to carry him off to debtors’ prison,’ I told Holloway, and she don’t look like a . . .”

  “Cit?” Leah supplied evenly. “And just what are we supposed to look like?”

  “Merville …” Tony’s voice was silky-soft as he faced the suddenly nonplussed fellow. “You will, of course, apologize to my wife.”

  “Oh, now, Tony, I say,” Merville protested weakly, aware now of the underlying edge in Lyndon’s words. “Oh … uh, yes. Heh-heh. No offense intended, ma’am—none ’t all. Devilish temper he’s got, ain’t it? Don’t know when a man’s funning.” Bowing quickly, he backed away, mumbling apologies.

  “You cannot keep them from talking, my lord.” Leah pulled her hand free and started walking back. “I told Papa how it would be.”

  “Leah …” He fell into step beside her, at a loss to recover what Merville’s careless words had cost him. His declaration now would seem false and contrived.

  22

  They were going to be fashionably late, Leah decided as she luxuriated in the steaming bath, soaking limbs still sore from so much walking. The pleasant scent of the French-milled soap clung to her and permeated the air, bringing forth the feeling of being surrounded by lilacs. She stretched her leg up to lather it again just for the lazy pleasure of it.

  She’d had a wonderful time in Paris—would hate to leave, in fact. Indeed, Tony had mentioned after her father’s last letter that they might extend the trip. Her father. She had to smile at the tone of his brief note—it was as though he were writing to someone else, all filled with “your ladyship” and “my lady.” But he was well, he said, and by the sound of his activities, it appeared he told the truth.

  Leaning forward to rinse herself, she happened to glance in the cheval mirror beside the screen, and her body went rigid. “How long have you been here?” she demanded of her husband’s reflection. “Do not come one step further, my lord,” she warned. “I am still bathing.”

  “Your pardon,” he managed in a voice that sounded strange even to him. “I thought that since Blair left me to do my own shirt, perhaps you would assist.” His mouth had gone almost too dry for words at the sight of her wet body. “I’ll wait for you to finish.”

  “Get Jeanne,” she advised, leaning now to cover herself.

  “When last I saw her, she was carrying a hatbox, complaining volubly that something was crushed. And, as Blair is gone to remove a wrinkle from my coat, I can only surmise that they are meeting somewhere over a steam kettle.”

  “Blair and Jeanne? Do not be absurd.” From her cramped position, she could see that he was still watching her in the mirror, and the expression on his face sent a tremor of excitement through her. Trying to keep her own voice calm, she told him, “You’ll have to leave if you expect me to get out of here.”

  When he moved from view and she heard the door close, she rose to reach for a towel. Water ran in rivulets down her body as she patted her face first. Then, as she was about to slide the towel lower to dry her breasts, she saw him again.

  “Of all the despicable, despicable, ungentlemanly, unseemly things!” she sputtered. “Get out of here, you lecher, you … you unprincipled rake!”

  As she clutched the towel to the crevice between her breasts rather than above them, Tony’s smile widened and the pulse in his temples beat faster. “There is nothing wrong with admiring one’s wife,” he answered softly, moving closer.

  “You have no right to stand there leering at me! I thought you’d left, else I’d not—”

  “The door was ajar, and I closed it. Besides, I have every right, Leah.”

  “Get out,” she repeated evenly despite the thudding of her heart. When he stepped forward rather than back, her own mouth went strangely dry. In desperation she cast about for a weapon. “Tony, you promised you would not—we would not—Tony, get out of here!”

  “You are beautiful, Leah,” h
e told her softly, coming still closer.

  “Tony, I thought we were friends,” she tried desperately. Her fingers closed over the wet bar of soap as she stepped back out of the tub away from him.

  “I’d cry friends and more with you, love.”

  “No.”

  He stopped, but by now she was too apprehensive to note anything beyond her own racing heart. Whether from fear of him or herself, she raised the bar of soap and hurled it. The suddenness of her action took him by complete surprise, and before he realized she meant to do it, the wet soap had caught him squarely under the brow.

  At first she gave a small crow of triumph, but then as she saw him rub his eye and wince in pain, she worried that she’d actually injured him. Grabbing her wrapper from a hook on the screen, she threw it over her wet body and came forward to examine her handiwork.

  “I think you have blacked my eye,” he managed with a remarkable degree of forbearance through soap-induced tears.

  “You would not leave,” she defended herself. “Here…” Picking up a wet washing cloth, she handed it to him. “I thought you meant to molest me.”

  Holding the cloth over his smarting eye, he shook his head.

  “Then what was your intent?” she demanded.

  “I know ’tis blacked,” he muttered.

  Feeling irrationally guilty, she reached to touch the lump that was forming at brow level. “Let me see.” As he lowered the cloth, she peered upward intently. “Well, it is swelling,” she admitted, “but ‘tis your own fault, Anthony Barsett. The next time I tell you to go, you’d best listen to me.”

  Her black-rimmed gray eyes were but inches from his, and the clean smell of soap and water floated upward. Her hair, which had been piled high, escaped from the ribbon that held it, and loose tendrils fell about her temples and clung wetly to her neck, while droplets of water beaded on her silky skin and splotched the fabric of her wrapper. His expression changed from chagrin to deviltry to desire, the emotions crossing his face like a parade marching double-time. Time stood still as anticipation and dread mixed in her breast, leaving her mesmerized by what she saw in his eyes.

  His hand, still holding the wet cloth, came up behind her head to pull the end of the ribbon, and as her hair cascaded down, the fingers of his other hand twined in it, imprisoning her. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart beat wildly as his mouth came down on hers. There was no brushing, no teasing, and nothing remotely tentative about his kiss. He dropped the cloth to the floor at their feet and slid his arm around her to mold her body to his, blotting all but the nearness of him from her consciousness. Her lips parted in feeble protest to receive instead his exploring tongue as the kiss deepened, igniting something inside her.

  She clung mindlessly to him, aware now only of his masculine strength as the hand that held her cradled first her waist and then her hip. Robbed of reason by his touch, she not only let his hand explore her, she in turn clasped her arms tightly about him. And when at last his mouth left hers to trace kisses down to her throat, she arched her head instinctively to give him access to the sensitive hollow there.

  Then she felt his hands leave her hair and her hip to feel for the tie at her waist. Some small voice of reason reasserted itself deep within her mind, protesting that it was wrong, that she did not love him, nor did he love her. As his fingers twined in the silken cord, she caught at them, holding them tightly.

  “No!”

  The vehemence of her protest startled him with its suddenness: He wanted to think that somehow she was like the others, being coy, saying no when she meant yes, and he tried to disentangle himself from the hands that held his. Yet, despite the fact that her smoky eyes were almost dark with desire and her breasts heaved as she mastered her breath, the moment had passed for her.

  “We are wed,” he whispered.

  “And that makes it right?” Pulling away, she retied her wrapper with her back to him. “Forgive my romantic notions, but…” she began, still mortified over her brazen response to him.

  “I think I love you, Leah.”

  “You think you love me—you think you love me?” Her temper, already strained beyond bearing, flared dangerously. “ ’Tis rich to hear you say it just that way, is it not? ’Tis what you think I would have you say, Tony Barsett!” Her chin jutted upward defiantly. “As this is my chamber, sir, I ask you to leave it.”

  He exhaled heavily, trying to still the desire that fought for control of him. “Will you do my studs first so that I may finish dressing?”

  “Your studs?” She stared blankly, unable to believe he could be so unaffected by what he’d done.

  “ ’Tis why I came here,” he prompted, his eyes sober now. Holding out his wrists to show his unfastened shirt cuffs, he stepped closer. “I’d not meant to do anything else.”

  Inadvertently her eyes strayed to where the snowy shirt fell away to expose the curling hairs on his chest, and she knew he’d spoken the truth in that at least. “I … uh …” Biting her lip to hide her nervousness, she nodded finally. “Then you will leave?”

  “Yes.”

  Keeping her gaze low to avoid meeting his, she reached out almost gingerly to take the studs he’d retrieved from his pocket, and awkwardly attempted to insert one of them in his cuff.

  “ ‘Tis better to use two hands,” he advised.

  He extended both wrists now, and she pulled the first stud holes together with one hand while maneuvering the pearl-and-silver fastening into them with the other. His palms were warm where she touched them, and once again she was struck by the masculinity of his hands— not that they were large or coarse, but rather that they appeared both clean and strong. Quickly she finished fastening both sleeves.

  “I have gotten most of the front, but I have difficulty with the neck—would it be too much to ask you to do it also?”

  She held out her palm with a sigh and let him drop the pearl stud into it. Her fingers worked it into place and then buttoned the top one. “You’d best hope that Blair returns to do your cravat, Tony, else I shall strangle you with it. Now, leave me be that I may dress also.”

  Retreating, he passed Jeanne in the hall. “Been on the back stairs with Blair again, eh?” he teased her.

  “Monsieur Blair is belowstairs with your coat, my lord,” she answered with a saucy smile. “The wrinkle was, I believe, quite a difficult one.”

  It was a puzzle to him that he could charm every female of his acquaintance save the one he wanted the most. Once he was in his chamber, he poured himself a small quantity of brandy, swirled it in his glass, and stared into the street below. For a fellow whose reputed conquests were legion, he had certainly bungled this one from the start. Why had he said he thought he loved her? Because he feared she would not love him back? Even now, it sounded almost as ridiculous in his mind as it had to her. He thought he loved her. No, he knew better—he knew he loved her. And, accomplished flirt that he was, he could not even tell when it was that desire had turned to something more.

  It was rich, the jests fate played on one, after all. Tony Barsett, the consummate rake, the last of a long line of ‘em, in fact, had been caught by a side-facer, blind-sided by himself, so to speak. He loved a green girl, a Cit whose contempt for his class was exceeded only by her contempt for him.

  Down the hall, Leah dressed quickly, trying not to think of what he’d done to her. It was, of course, impossible. Everything about him, from his obvious handsomeness to the warmth of his hands, assailed her senses and made her acutely aware of him. And her treacherous mind refused to cooperate, returning repeatedly to dwell on the feel of his mouth on hers, his freshly shaven cheek against hers, reliving again the sensations brought forth by his hands on her body. There was a traitor within her, a weakness that made her want to yield the citadel.

  23

  “I have gone to masquerades in a domino, my dear, but I assure you ’tis the first time I have ever had to appear with a patched eye,” he murmured
in the darkness of their hired carriage. “ ’Twill be said I mean to go incognito into the den of iniquity.”

  “Fiddle. If you are seeking sympathy from me, Tony Barsett, you have misjudged your aim. ’Twas you who would come closer, and you cannot say you were not warned.”

  “Heartless jade.”

  “Instead of seeking sympathy, my lord, you ought to be thankful that soap was the only weapon at hand,” she reminded him. “Had there been anything else, you’d have more than a blacked eye.”

  “I was overcome by your beauty,” he tried soulfully, “and could not control my baser impulses. I was besotted.”

  “A Banbury tale if I ever heard one. What you were doing, Tony, was …”

  “Yes?” he drawled.

  “You were bent on seduction, and well you know it.”

  “And as I recall it, you were not depressing my pretensions either.”

  That brought her up short. Turning to stare into the dark Parisian street, she offered him the shadow of her profile against the side of the carriage. Her long standing sense of honesty prevailing, she admitted slowly, “No, I did not, I suppose, and I cannot account for my behavior. It was immodest in the extreme.”

  “No.” His voice softened as he reached across to her. “ ’Tis the way it should be between us, Leah.”

  “I behaved like the brazen trollop you thought me when we met,” she added, sparing herself not at all.

  “Hardly that.” His hand closed over hers, stilling it in her lap. “If that were the case, I’d not have this black eye, and you—”

  “Stop it! I let you kiss me!”

  “You did that,” he agreed as his fingers soothed and stroked the back of her hand. “But is that so terrible? As I told you then, we are wed, Leah—we can do anything we wish.”

  “But we agreed! This marriage is a sham!”

  “It is whatever we choose to make of it.”