“Perhaps a coachman for the gig, though where we’d put him if two wished to ride, I have no idea. Or a stalwart footman in scarlet livery and periwig to open the door. Or better yet, a starched-up butler to give our household true consequence. Though where we’d house them I have no idea. Perhaps they could sleep on the nursery floor.”
As if he had not heard his wife’s dripping sarcasm, Royce flipped a hand at the boy, who had paused in the doorway, evidently reluctant to miss a word of the sparring match between his employers. As the door finally shut behind him, Royce added, in a tone that struck both women as ominous, “And now, ladies, perhaps one of you would show me to my room.”
Chapter 9
The cottage Guy Fallon’s agents had procured for Captain Kincade was, in fact, one of the many cottages-ornée that were coming into fashion. Originally a modest stone farmhouse, it had been expanded into a residence of five bedrooms upstairs. The older portion of the cottage boasted leaded, diamond-paned windows of considerable antiquity, while a thick, well-laid thatch covered the whole. Dormant gardens, front and back—with no sign of the beds of marigolds that gave the cottage its name—completed the picture of idyllic country living, even as London’s newest row houses lurked just beyond the trees but a half-mile away.
Holly had thought long and hard about where the captain should sleep. Though she had vowed to be a good wife, surely he did not expect to share her bed each night. Gentlemen of the ton had their own rooms, separate from their wives, that she knew. But Captain Kincade was not of the ton, his origins middle class, generations removed from any claim to nobility. And middle-class men—primarily, she speculated, because they could not afford large houses—expected to share their wives’ beds for more than the time it took to gratify their desires. Therefore . . . a quandary.
In the end the arrangement of the cottage itself resolved her dilemma. Whoever had expanded the original house had added two rooms with bowed windows at the back and cut a door between the two bedchambers in the style of houses in Mayfair. A modern kitchen, pantry, and servants’ quarters occupied the space beneath.
“I hope you will be comfortable here, Captain,” Holly offered as he examined the clearly unoccupied room, a frown settling between his brows until he noticed the connecting door.
The captain raised a brow. “Aping tonnish ways, are we?”
Holly huffed a breath, feeling hot color rushing to her cheeks. Why Royce Kincade was the only man who could make her blush she refused to consider. Devil take him. What did he expect when she barely knew him? Ha! After long months at sea, she knew exactly what he expected. “I presumed you would prefer your privacy, Captain.”
“As you would prefer yours.” The words, though softly spoken, cut to the bone.
Holly bit her lip and said nothing. The captain had a remarkable ability to silence her all-too-ready tongue. The bedchamber was large, but he seemed to fill it with his presence, throwing out rolling waves of disgust, annoyance . . . disappointment? For heaven’s sake, what had he expected? That he could just walk right in and take over all the rights of husband, father, and head of household?
Of course he did. He was male. They were married. And courtesans were expected to be able to melt becomingly before the gaze of perfect strangers. And no matter the band of gold on her finger, she was as bought and paid for as if she were plying her trade in Covent Garden. The twins’ birth was long past, they even slept through the night now. She had no excuse for putting him off.
And she had sworn she would not. Until he swept through her door, a hurricane of male energy. Male dominance. Male expectations. Causing her hackles to rise, her protective instincts to snap into place. Here was danger. The only way to survive was by shutting him out.
He was . . . too much. If she allowed him into her life, he would swallow her whole.
To make matters worse, both ethics and legalities learned at the Aphrodite Academy dictated that she had no right to put him off. She had, in fact, less rights than a courtesan. As the captain’s wife, she was his to do with as he pleased. Only some very staunch maneuvering by Guy Fallon, who had represented her side in the marriage settlements, had ensured that she could keep whatever bits and bobs she owned at the time of her marriage. All else, including the cottage, belonged to Captain Kincade. In short, neither a separate room nor her most prickly façade would put the captain off. He would do as he damn well pleased.
There were many things Royce had dreamed of during his long days and night at sea. Changing nappies was not among them. But when the twins, wide-eyed, instantly stopped squirming and kicking when he frowned down at them, the task was not as onerous as anticipated. And his sense of accomplishment was nearly as great as the first time he climbed a ship’s mast all the way to the crow’s nest. Remarkable. But he was now even more thankful he had told Jesse the hiring of a second nursery maid was urgent.
Yet they were delightful, the rambunctious pair of them. Though shy of him at first, the twins were soon gurgling with glee as he spun a penny on the floor, made faces at them, or went so far as to crawl about on all fours, making animal noises. And when he swung Andrew in a circle, holding fast to his hands, the little boy shrieked with joy, while Anne set up a howl, demanding her turn immediately.
“Where did you learn about children?” Holly asked, as she watched his expertise with narrowed eyes.
“I have friends with children,” he told her. “And a sister in Yorkshire with three of them.”
“Then you are more knowledgeable than I.” The hurt in her voice was clear.
Royce gave Anne a toss in the air, deftly caught her, and sat her down beside her brother. “Playing with babies is easy, Holly. All the rest is not. That’s why we’re getting more help.”
“Help?” Holly yelped. “From a–a dollymop!”
While swallowing a hot response, Royce looked down at the children and discovered they were already half way across the room, heading straight for the fireplace. He put barricades at the top of his mental list of items to buy. “Jesse!” he bawled.
When the twins had been retrieved and put in Jesse’s care, Royce asked Holly, “How old is this girl?”
“I have no idea, but Fetch turned fifteen last month, so I suspect she’s younger than that.”
Less than fifteen. Well, he’d had cabin boys younger than that who had served him well. Responsible rascals, the lot of them. “If she’s in an orphanage,” he offered, “I would assume she knows a good deal about children.”
“And about the streets of Seven Dials!” Holly shot back. “God only knows what she and Fetch were up to before Nick Black took him in.”
“Holly,” Royce said with a groan, “the boy was a gang leader, her protector.”
“Exactly.”
Ignoring the less than savory implication, Royce added, “And he protected her and his whole gang straight into the orphanage. Off the streets and safe. Black told me the story one night. The boy, rough as he is, has a remarkable gift for leadership. When Black offered to take him in—which had to be the ultimate dream of every street kid in London—the boy wouldn’t accept unless Black provided for every last one of his friends. So this Cathy, whoever she is, is likely to be a cut above, for Fetch would only choose the best for himself.” He shrugged. “And if not, it’s back to the orphanage.”
“You could do that?” Holly was regarding him with something close to horror.
Was the woman mad? First, objecting to the girl and then championing her cause? “I understand Black’s charitable establishments are very well run,” he returned, keeping his tone bland. “You have only to look at Boone Farm to know that.”
“But to let her out into the world, only to send her back!”
Royce grabbed for Andrew, who had pulled himself up to a side table, his chubby fingers perilously close to a Chinese vase. Neatly tossing the babe to his shoulder, he said, “Then we must attend closely to her training so that will never happen.”
Why must the man be
so impossibly reasonable? Holly fumed. Though he might have a flaw or two, such as deception about Charles’s money, overall he was so noble he made her teeth ache. The captain was far too good for the likes of Holly Hammond, no doubt about that! But it appeared they were stuck with each other. After all, no one said no to Nick Black. Not Fetch, not Cecilia, not Royce Kincade. And not Holly Hammond, who had succumbed to Black’s arranged marriage as easily as Fetch had left the London stews for Princes Street.
Unfair. She had leaped at this marriage, while she suspected Fetch must have suffered from the wrench of leaving his friends. Clearly, compassion was in order. It was time for her to give back some of the blessings she had received.
And Fetch’s Cathy would not be the only recipient of her determination to play the role of Lady Bountiful. Her face set in a determined frown, Holly renewed her vow of gratitude to Captain Kincade. She would curb her tongue, ignore her doubts. More importantly, she would ignore her fear.
She turned away, eyes closed. There was a time when both mind and body would have been aquiver at the thought of the touch of such a man. But now, after pregnancy and birthing had worn her to the bone, she saw him as the stranger he was. The stranger who, with his eye on his stated goal of children of his own, would expect to make the most of his few short weeks on land.
Merde!
“Excuse me,” Holly murmured, “I must check on the children.” She picked up her skirts and ran from the room, leaving the captain staring after her, looking thoughtful.
By five o’clock that day Nick had unpacked the few garments he had brought with him and hung them in the black oak wardrobe, where they seemed lost in its large, gloomy interior. He had walked the perimeter of the cottage and inspected the general environs, which he was pleased to find suitably private, with a towering screen of sycamore and oak, with one rather fine copper beech between Marigold Cottage and its nearest neighbor. And, to his surprise, he discovered a bubbling stream marking the property’s rear boundary, something not mentioned by the either Holly or Guy Fallon. Though swollen by spring rains, it was a quiet stream, flowing past cleared land on the cottage side and woodland on the other. A far cry from the roiling, wind-swept Atlantic, but it was water, and somehow made him feel more at home in this new, and awkward, situation.
There was even a rustic bridge that led to a path through the woods. Some former owner of Marigold Cottage had placed a wooden bench on the bank nearby, creating a haven of peace where one could sit and listen to the gurgling stream, breathe in the scent of trees and grass and fresh air . . .
Did Holly ever come here, he wondered in an effort to escape the pandemonium created by the twins? He hoped so. Truly, he’d had no idea how hard it could be for a woman alone.
Royce’s hand tightened around the back of the bench as he gazed down into a still pool of water cut into the bank of the swift-flowing stream. Clearly, his homecoming was not going according to the fanciful visions he’d conjured during long nights at sea. And mending matters was likely going to take as much lively stepping as a hornpipe. The scowl he directed at the eddying water should have been enough to turn the still pool to ice.
Reluctantly, Royce turned toward the cottage, arriving back just as an impressive black carriage, polished to shiny perfection, rumbled down the drive and pulled up in front. A young man—a very young man—flung open the door, let down the steps, and reached inside to help a girl even younger than himself descend.
Hell and the devil, Royce growled to himself. The chit couldn’t be a day over thirteen. But the boy, thin and wiry, had an impressive air of confidence about him. The March wind blew waves of blond hair about his face as he removed a small bundle from the coach that likely contained all the girl’s possessions. After a few words that only partially alleviated the poor child’s anxious expression, the boy took her by the hand and started toward the front door.
Dear God, Royce thought, he was starting down the road Nick Black had forged—setting up his own home for abandoned children.
Royce went in the kitchen door and made it to the front parlor just as Holly swept down the stairs, swiftly introducing him to Fetch—no last name, who in turn introduced them to Cathy, who was equally unclaimed by mother or father. Though slight of body, as if the first wisp of wind would blow her away, her golden brown hair was clean and shiny, falling in soft curls well past her shoulders. Her eyes were classic cornflower blue. Royce’s swift comparison deemed them a shade or two darker than Fetch’s, which had tinges of Nick Black’s steely gray. Particularly now when the boy’s shoulders were stiff, defiant, his message clear. This was his Cathy, and the Kincades better like her, or else!
“Catherine, welcome.” Holly said. “And thank you for coming so swiftly. We are greatly in need of an extra pair of hands.”
“Just Cathy, ma’am. I don’t know no other name.”
Holly returned a gracious nod before turning to the girl’s escort. “Thank you for bringing her, Fetch. And please thank Mr. Black for the use of his carriage.”
Royce could only wonder at the boy he had seen so briefly at his wedding. Young Fetch had all the poise and grace of someone twice his age. No wonder Black had snatched him out of the London stews.
“No trouble at all, ma’am. He’s that pleased for our Cathy to find a good position.” He turned to the girl at his side. “I have to go now, Cath, but I’ll come back tomorrow to see how you go on. Just listen to what Missus Kincade tells you, and you’ll be fine.” When tears brimmed in her eyes, he laid a hand on each of her shoulders and added, “You’ve been helpin’ with babies for years now. You’ll do good, I promise.”
Hell’s hounds, Royce grumbled to himself. Until today his marriage had been theoretical. A vague fantasy of coming home to a beautiful woman with all the skills and sexual eagerness of a high-class courtesan, only to find his dreams blown to bits by the reality of a harried wife and two lively, and decidedly smelly, infants. And now they had added a third child to the household. A child who came with a protector of her very own. A protector who answered only to a man so notorious the mere whisper of his name brought fear to the hearts of strong men.
Venturer, Venturer, Venturer. He had to remember Venturer.
And Holly. Surely the courtesan from the Aphrodite Academy must be about somewhere, lurking under the harried façade of the mother of twins. After all, a man deserved some compensation for turning his life upside down. Didn’t he?
Two hours later when Royce and Holly sat down for dinner, he was still looking grim.
Chapter 10
Holly had no difficulty reading the captain’s mood. His manners might be impeccable, his treatment of the twins laudable, but his homecoming could not possibly have been what he anticipated. Had he hoped she had miraculously transformed into the ideal wife? Or had he hoped for the courtesan and found only the harried mother? Worse yet, perhaps thoughts of her filled him with disgust. Certainly that fear had haunted her these past months in the odd moments when Andrew and Anne had not demanded her full attention. Royce Kincade had been promised an exorbitant reward if he married her. And it seemed highly doubtful Nick Black had said anything about cherishing, or even respecting, the woman to whom the captain was giving his name. She was Holly Hammond, whore—a means to an end. And all the Aphrodite Academy’s fine polish could not erase the heedless wanton she had been when she first came to town, sampling men with all the enthusiasm of a gourmet let loose at one of the Prince Regent’s elaborate banquets.
Until she’d discovered she had a better head on her shoulders than nine-tenths of them, yet, to a man, they treated her as a commodity to be bought and sold. Brainless, soulless, good for but one thing. And finally she’d begun to see her life for what it was—precarious and unsatisfying. So, yes, she’d fought to put herself in the way of the woman some called the Dragon Lady. She’d fought for a place beside girls with better backgrounds, girls who didn’t have to overcome the handicap of a rank commoner’s speech. And the sharp, saucy tongue o
f born Haymarket ware.
And she’d done it. She had joined the cream of the courtesans . . . and look what happened. She’d proved herself the dross she’d been born. No wonder the captain was looking pained.
As she prepared to join him for dinner, Holly peered into the perfectly silvered mirror attached to her dressing table. Even the wavering candlelight could not conceal the ravages of the day. All was lost. She could not come back from the appalling impression she had already made.
Yet she had to try. If only Jesse and Cathy could keep the babes occupied for an hour or two—long enough for a leisurely adult dinner followed by her discreetly slipping away long enough for a final feeding before leaving her youthful baby attendants to put the twins to bed.
And then . . .
Holly attempted a smile, but the smug confidence that once had been hers failed. Miserably. She knew her duty, however. And with such a stalwart example of manhood, she should be all eagerness—however much she now knew not just the pleasure but the pain and sorrow of lying with a man.
She shivered.
Yet only minutes later, with determined steps Holly crossed to her wardrobe, where she stood frowning at the gown she had commissioned for exactly this occasion. Captain Kincade’s return. The color of a ripe peach and adorned by nothing more than bands of white embroidery on the hems of the sleeves and skirt, the gown fell in shining silken folds from a minuscule bodice that revealed more than it concealed. Both Belle and Cecy had agreed that Holly’s taste in garments had improved as dramatically as her speech. The captain would be enthralled.
Now, however, Holly had doubts. The captain’s reaction remained to be seen. When she descended the stairs an hour later, her heart was thudding so loudly it pounded in her ears. Her head whirled, she could scarcely breathe.
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