by Cheryl Holt
"Oh, Lord," he exhaled.
"What?" she asked, looking innocent again. Too innocent, he realized, and he wondered fleetingly if perhaps there weren't many things going on here of which he was completely unaware.
Who was using whom? And for what? But just as quickly as the thoughts had formed, they disappeared into sensation.
"Tell me what you did to my father," she said, moaning softly over the feeling of his warm, searching fingers.
"Your father?" he asked, and his voice came out in a near squeak. He cleared his throat. "Oh, yes ... your father. Ah ... he and I had some business. Ah ... he owes me money."
He absolutely had to remove her from his lap, away from his tense thighs and raging phallus, before he did something
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they'd both regret, but his wretched body wouldn't behave as he commanded. Before he realized what he was doing, he'd transferred his other hand under her skirt and both were stroking her. The expensive lace of her undergarments kept catching on the calluses of his work-roughened hands.
"Did you truly try to murder the duke in his own library?" Penny asked the question to which everyone in the house was dying to hear the answer. No one knew exactly what had happened, and her father certainly wasn't saying.
"No," he said, "I just fired my pistol. Trying to make a point."
"To get his attention?" she inquired, squirming slightly against the blistering heat of his palms at such a naughty spot on the backs of her legs.
“Yes,'' he answered, completely distracted, barely cognizant of what they were discussing.
"That can be difficult."
"You sound as though you speak from experience."
"I do," she said, her hands leaving his hair in order to massage the rigid muscles of his shoulders and neck.' 'Although I must admit that I've recently discovered the way to help him focus completely."
"How did you do that?" He couldn't decide where he liked her hands more—on his shoulders or in his hair—and he caught himself holding his breath, wishing she'd caress his chest.
"I've told him that I'm not marrying Edward. In fact, I may have mentioned that if I ever see the lout again, I plan to murder him." She wiggled her brows suggestively. "With my new knife."
"Bravo, my little beauty," he congratulated her. He loved to see her taking charge and fighting back. In all the stories he'd heard about her, no one had ever mentioned that she was tough as nails. Perhaps it was a trait she'd always enjoyed, one that had been hidden, but it had now risen to the fore, and he imagined the men who were manipulating her life weren't
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certain what to do with her. "And what did the duke have to say to that bit of news?''
She stopped moving, stopped her roving hands, stopped her shifting hips. This was the moment to risk all, to take what she wanted and needed more than anything in the world. She could do it too, and she would prevail. There could be no other conclusion than success.
''He said that he' s going to reschedule the date of the wedding and that I can't get out of it. Despite what Edward's done, or how I feel about him, it's too late to call a halt to the proceedings." She swallowed hard. "We're going to skip the fanfare that would have made it a grand social event and have a private ceremony, without all the balls and parties. The wedding is coming. It's in three weeks."
Lucas's first impulse was to tamp down a surge of excitement—if Westmoreland was so determined to marry her off, her value had just increased tenfold—but he was hastily shaking his head in disbelief, wondering how a father could be so cruel to his own flesh and blood. If he would commit such a craven act against his legitimate daughter, what chance did any of them have for getting little Harry his due?
“What is the matter with that man?'' he asked, not expecting an answer. There couldn't possibly be one that would adequately explain his reasoning or his behavior.
"I can't go through with it, Lucas," she said adamantly. "I can't."
"No, no," he said, shaking his head again. "You're right; you can't. I'll not let him do this to you," he vowed, thinking that he now had two of Harold Westmoreland's children in his care.
He could never abandon her to the fate the duke had planned. The very idea was impossible to contemplate, and the more time he passed in her company, the stronger he felt that spiriting her away was the proper thing to do. Notwithstanding how he'd initially arrived at his decision, the steps he'd arranged would keep her safe and out of her father's clutches.
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Her stunning pronouncement had the blessed effect of cutting the cord of physical desire that had held them together, and he was able to find the strength he needed to plunge ahead, down a different road from the one they'd been on since they'd first entered the garden. He located her waist and lifted her to the side, sitting her on the cold stone of the bench. Kneeling in front of her, he took both her hands in his.
"Will you come away with me?" he asked. He went on quickly before she could say no. All subsequent events depended on her answer. “I realize that you hardly know me, that we've spent very little time together, but I am an honorable man." He gritted his teeth in order to get past such an absolute fabrication. "I'm not rich by any means, not by your father's standard anyway, but I'm well off after a fashion, and I have a fine house and my shipping business makes a substantial, steady income and—"
"Yes," she said, cutting him short. Though she'd come to the garden dreaming that their rendezvous might lead to this moment, she hadn't realized how deeply his capitulation would impress her, and she was unable to prevent the swell of tears that flooded to her eyes. His proposal had lifted the weight of the entire world from her shoulders. Suddenly she could hope again. "Yes," she repeated, "I will come with you."
"We would need to go soon—"
"Now?" she asked, perfectly willing to comply.
"Not tonight," he said, unable to explain that he wasn't yet ready to make off with her, that he had too many final errands to complete.
"Tomorrow night?"
"That would be best," he agreed. "There's very little moon. It will aid in our getaway."
"I can be ready by then." She nodded, her mind already racing a thousand miles ahead to the furtive arrangements she would need to make, to the last-minute chores she would need to finish.
In spite of the fact that she didn't want to frighten him in
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case he hadn't thought this impetuous venture all the way through, she wondered if he truly realized what a risk he was taking by assisting her. He needed to understand the possible consequences before they proceeded. She said, "I think he'll come looking for me."
"I think so too."
"We might be in danger."
"Let me worry about that."
What a relief it was to see that he wasn't afraid. Not of the duke. Not of his authority. Not of his power. "Where will we go?" she asked. "How will we be safe?"
"We'll marry. As soon as I can get it arranged," he said, giving voice to the lie that would set everything in motion.
As he'd sat alone on his ship, planning the entire caper down to the last detail, he'd often thought ahead to this occasion. He'd convinced himself that the falsehood would be easy to speak, that it would spring freely from his lips, but as he promised the wedded state to her, one he had no intention they'd ever enter, he felt like the lowest sort of vermin.
The taste of deception was bitter, vile, especially when she was staring up at him with her heart in her eyes. When all of this was ended, she would never forgive him. He knew it as certainly as he knew his own name. There were some betrayals that could never be forgotten. Surely this was one of them, but he continued anyway.
"Once we're married," he said, "the duke won't be able to do us any harm. So ... will you have me? And mind now . . . before you answer," he cautioned, "think about this: Your life will be very different. I haven't your family's wealth or connections. We will have a comfortable home, plenty
to eat, but I could not hope to match all this...." He gazed over his shoulder, across the grounds to the dark mansion. A single lamp burned in an upstairs room. Beyond that it was unlit and quiet.
For one meager instant he wished he could promise her all the grand possessions he could see scattered about, for after
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they went off together, no other man of her society would ever have her as a wife. The reality of what he was taking from her poked at his conscience like shards of sharp glass, and he was overcome with a vicious urge to put a halt to his preparations, but he forcefully pounded it down.
He was doing it for Caroline. For Harry. He would see them avenged!
"Yes, yes, I will marry you," she said, smiling and thinking he was the most remarkable, exceptional person she'd ever met. "I don't need any of the worldly goods in that great house in order to be happy," she said, looking past her shoulder as well. "I never did. It's a very lonely place."
"As long as you realize what you'll be leaving ..." he cautioned a second time.
And what I'll be getting, she thought to herself. "I'll be a worthy wife to you, Lucas Pendleton. I swear I will."
Her vow was so heartrending, so freely conferred, so strongly made, all he could do was accept it with a slight inclination of his head. He'd have given anything in the world to be able to make such a pledge in return, but he'd told enough untruths for one evening.
He stood, pulling her to her feet with him. "It's time for me to go."
"So soon?"
"Yes," he said, determined to leave so that he could spend the remainder of the night kicking himself for being such a swine, such a horrid excuse for a man. The lengths to which he would go to injure this poor woman were beyond imagining, and he needed to be alone so that he could come to terms with the extent of his folly. "We need to be careful now. If you are caught out here this evening, you'll never be able to get away tomorrow night."
"You're right," she concurred. "What time shall we meet?"
"Midnight, but not here," he said. "By the back gate. Over by the mews. We'll slip through and walk some distance to a
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carriage. One small bag is all you can bring. We'll buy you more clothes and necessaries later."
"That sounds fine," she agreed. Gaily she added, "I can't wait."
"Neither can I." Because she appeared so blissful over the. turn of events, it seemed appropriate to indulge her with one brief, light kiss, just a touch against her mouth; then he was over the wall and away into the shadows.
"I'll make you a great wife," she promised once more to the vacant spot where he'd so recently been. "Just see if I don't."
A feeling of freedom coursed through her veins, excitement wracked her nerves. Barely able to keep a leisurely pace, she turned and walked back to her father's house, trying to pretend that nothing was amiss.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Paulie hovered in the shadows across from the exclusive gentlemen's club. His gaze was alert and perceptive, checking out the carriages and the liverymen pulling up in front of the door to drop off or collect their esteemed passengers. Waiting. Patiently. It was a slow time of day, when the members were passing by for an early drink, to read the paper, or chat. For over two hours he'd been watching them come and go.
Then he saw what he was looking for: the immaculate team of four white horses, and the green and gold of the coachmen that belonged to the Duke of Roswell. The moment had arrived, and he knew exactly how he was going to accomplish his goal. Admiringly he looked down at the new set of clothes Lucas had bought for him. The outfit, coupled with the bath Lucas had made him endure, had changed him into someone other than who he had been. He now resembled an apprentice or a shop boy. No one would pay him any mind as he casually made his way about.
He waited a few more minutes until the duke emerged. When Paulie saw the white hair and fancy coat, the immense gold ring on the duke's hand, his fingers tingled at the thought of what kind of fortune he might be able to filch from the older
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man's pockets, but he quickly pushed the notion aside. He'd promised Lucas that he would behave. Since Lucas was the only adult he'd met in ages whom he deemed worth his salt, the one who, in a short time, had earned his respect and admiration, Paulie wouldn't let him down.
The duke walked out into the cool, wet afternoon. There was another man with him, one who was older, fat, bald, and he also wore the expensive trappings of affluence and authority. The two of them glanced up at the sky, at the puddles in the street, and the duke said something that sent servants scurrying. One approached with a small canopy held high, and the two men walked under it, shielded from the mist, to the duke's carriage.
There was a slight delay as one of the liverymen opened the door and lowered the step, and Paulie made his move. Casually he slipped as close to the duke as he dared and said, "I have a message from Lucas Pendleton." He tossed the missive in front of the duke, and it fluttered to the ground at his feet.
The powerful man turned, impaling Paulie with his fierce blue eyes, just as one of the servants noticed him.
"Off with you, boy!" the servant spit out in warning. "Who are you to think you can speak to your betters!" He pulled his arm back, ready to cuff Paulie about the ears, but Paulie didn't even flinch. He'd been dodging blows all his life and knew just how far away he needed to stand in order to be out of range.
Before the man could proceed, however, the duke made an abrupt gesture with his hand, stopping the attempt. He glared at the envelope lying between them as though it were a venomous snake poised to strike. Finally he pointed toward it, and one of the liverymen retrieved it and handed it to him. He thumbed open the flap and angrily scanned the words.
Paulie was dying to know what the letter said, but he couldn't read, not even his own name, so he hadn't bothered trying to sneak a peek, because the scribbling would have been nonsense. But whatever Lucas had penned, it was obvious that the intent
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was effective. The duke's face reddened as he read the directive once, then again, and he moved away from his entourage and in Paulie's direction. He had a vicious look about him, but Paulie hardly cared. Grown-ups other than Lucas had never regarded him in any other fashion, and that's why Paulie was so willing to see this task successfully completed. There was something about Captain Pendleton that he liked very much.
If he'd been older or wiser, he might have recognized that Lucas Pendleton was the type of male that lost boys such as himself dreamed about having as a father. As he'd never known a real father, or even an uncle, he couldn't identify the buried wish for what it was. He knew only that Lucas had singled him out, that he enjoyed Lucas's respect, and that he would make Lucas proud by doing his job well.
The duke pulled himself up to an astonishing height, his hands gripped behind his back, and demanded, "What do you want, boy?"
Bravely he answered, "Mr. Pendleton said that I was to give you his note, and he said I was to ask if you had any message in return."
“Do I have a message?'' he blurted out, taking a menacing step in Paulie's direction. "Do I have a message!"
“Yes. I've got a good memory. I won't forget a single word." Paulie wisely took one step back, judging the distance. He wasn't afraid. With ease he could outrun this pack of obese, lazy men. As fast as they could snap their chubby, beringed fingers, he would vanish into the back alleys of London, and they'd never see him go.
He pronounced cockily, "If you have no answer, I'm to tell him that as well."
"Does Mr. Pendleton seriously think," the duke said, backing Paulie up a pace at a time, "that I will engage in discourse on a public street with the likes of you?''
"Does that mean you have no response?" Paulie asked. "If you don't, he said I should remind you that he intends to move
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forward with his plans. That this is the only warning you'll receive."
"See h
ere!" one of the servants said, shocked by Paulie's outrageous behavior.
The duke waved him off, saying to Paulie, "You miserable little whelp. Do you think you can threaten me and get away with it?"
The pretentious older man trudged forward, straightening a bit of lace at his cuff and asking, "Who is this ruffian, Harold?''
"No one. No one at all," the duke replied with such insult that Paulie couldn't resist tweaking his nose out of joint just a bit further.
"That's what you think, you old bastard," he muttered just loudly enough for everyone to hear, and the servants gasped, for no one could imagine a boy speaking to the duke at all, let alone in a rude manner. He added forcefully, "This is your last chance to answer."
As he'd expected, the duke nodded his head at his underlings, silently ordering three of the liverymen to jump at him, but Paulie was away before any of them had a chance to react. He bounded down one narrow avenue, then another, rounded a corner, hearing their shouts and cries, but he knew where he was going, and in a moment he'd be safe.
Unfortunately he took that second to glance over his shoulder, and when he looked ahead once again, two women were coming out of a shop. He ran into them head on, and their packages scattered. The impact of the collision tossed him to the side, and he was knocked against the cobbles with a hard thump. For a brief instant he lost his wind and his bearings, and it was just long enough for the three men to catch him.
One grabbed a leg, the other an arm, and he started to struggle. The third reached around his neck, and Paulie bit down, tasting blood and causing the man to yelp in surprise. He hit Paulie hard across the face, sending him sprawling.
"I say!" one of the women shouted indignantly.
"Stand aside, miss!" the man ordered, but to Paulie's sur-
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prise, she didn't listen. She proceeded into the center of the fracas, shielding him from his attackers. From his position he couldn't see much except the expensive fabric of her skirt. She leaned over and gazed at him with compassion in her blue eyes. Raindrops dotted her blond hair and sparkled like tiny diamonds, and he decided she appeared to be a fairy-tale princess, and he fell in love on the spot.