Out Of Her League
Copyright © 2012 by Ava Archer Payne
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
OUT OF HER LEAGUE
Ava Archer Payne
Chapter One
London, 1855
Katherine Riley opened the squat pine chest in which she stored her undergarments. Hidden deep in the dark wooden recesses was a secret cache only she knew existed. Brushing aside the plain cotton drawers and thrice-mended garters, the faded shifts and dull woolen stockings, Kate reached for the treasure buried within. Silk and satin skimmed her fingertips, as cool and light as a summer’s breeze.
It wasn’t just the fabrics that thrilled her, but the colors. Unlike her everyday serviceable cottons—formerly crisp whites that had faded to milky gray after too many washes—these were bold hues, as treasured to Kate as the jewels they reflected. Garters of sapphire silk, drawers of sheer pearl netting, stockings edged with amethyst lace, emerald satin corsets that pinched in her waist and lifted her breasts.
Giddy with excitement, she removed the garments and set them on the bed next to her trunk. She hadn’t dared wear any of it. Not yet. Certainly not beneath her starched nurse’s apron while she worked in the wards of London’s St. Thomas Hospital.
For the moment, it was thrill enough to simply own such scandalous items. To revel in anticipation of her coming holiday in Paris, when she would finally have the opportunity to don the outrageous silks and satins.
It wouldn’t matter that no one else would know what she wore beneath her plain wool gowns. It wouldn’t matter that her breasts were too generous for the current fashion, or that her hips were slightly wider than what was deemed attractive. For once, Katherine Riley would feel beautiful. Special. Noticed.
She longed for the touch of icy smooth satin caressing her rear as she walked along the Champs-Elysées. Silk stockings hugging her thighs as she toured the Louvre. Gaudy ribbons fluttering down her spine as she dined at an open air café. Her breasts bouncing in their ruby lace cups.
Not a care in the world as a hired carriage carried her, along with the two elderly widows for whom she would be acting as nurse and traveling companion, on a scenic trip beside the Seine. It was all too exciting.
The shuffle of feet beyond her chamber alerted her to the presence of one of her brothers.
“Kate?” Bertie called through the closed door. “George and I would like a word with you.”
Her mood of playful eagerness at the prospect of tomorrow’s departure instantly shattered. Kate shoved the treasured garments into the bottom of her trunk and latched it shut. “I’ll be right there.”
She returned a stray lock of dark blond hair to its rightful place in the orderly bun at the nape of her neck. Then she squared her shoulders and stepped into the front parlor. Or rather, the partitioned room between the kitchen and sleeping quarters that functioned as a parlor.
While Kate and her brothers still maintained the modest home in which they had been raised, their reduced circumstances relegated them to living in the third floor garret, a space that had originally served as the servants quarters. The lower, more impressive floors, were let out, and the monthly sums they collected were put to use paying what felt to be a never-ending string of expenses.
Her brothers sat waiting for her at the kitchen table. Kate was immediately struck by the air of impending doom hanging over them. She bit back a sigh. A last minute crisis about to be dumped at her feet before she departed, no doubt. Acting on long-ingrained habit, she scanned their faces in an effort to judge the nature of this newest calamity.
Both perennial bachelors, George was thirty, seven years her senior. Though once considered attractive, he’d gained weight in recent years, and his naturally florid complexion wasn’t helped by the blossoming of spidery veins along his nose and cheeks. He toyed with a bottle of gin resting on the table in front of him. Noting that the bottle was empty, she gave his eyes a quick glance. Pink-rimmed, but not glassy.
She judged him sober enough and turned her attention to Bertie, who just last week had reached the age of six and twenty. Dressed in a foppish suit coat, he fidgeted with his hat, scrupulously avoiding her gaze. His manner told her all she needed to know. So that was it. Wagering. Again.
“How much this time, Bertie?”
Bertie’s brows snapped together in irritation. “You needn’t take that tone with me, Kate.”
“How much?”
He tightened his grip on his hat. “Oh, it’s not that bad. A trifle, really, in the scheme of things.”
“How much?”
“Fifty.”
“Fifty shilling?” Kate echoed, appalled. “Honestly, Bertie. What were you thinking? That’ll set the household account back three weeks. I hope you’ve a taste for beans and toast while I’m away, for there’s little else—”
“Fifty pounds, Kate.”
Kate froze. She stared at her brother in shocked silence, as though he were a passing stranger who’d slapped her as she’d stepped from the trolley. Her knees went weak, and she was suddenly glad for the presence of the chair beside her. She sank into the seat, her mind blank with horror.
“You promised, Bertie. You promised there’d be no more gambling.”
“It’s not my fault,” he whined, his voice shrill and petulant as a child’s.
“Then whose fault is it?”
“If you must blame someone, blame the idiot rider. If the man had kept the horse to the inner fence as he should have, rather than rushing things and trying to overtake the damned—”
“We haven’t got fifty pounds, Bertie.”
“You think I don’t know that?” He shot back, heat infusing his cheeks. “And I suppose you’ll blame me for that, won’t you? Maybe we ought to ask you where the money goes. You’re the one who manages the household funds. You think George and I like living this way? At least I was trying to improve our lot, which is more than I can say for you.”
Kate turned away, blocking out Bertie’s rantings. His moods reminded her of a barnswallow, forever darting up and down; quick to smile, quick to anger. Always hatching a new scheme to turn their fortune around—a scheme that invariably failed, and was someone else’s fault when it did.
She looked to her eldest brother for help. George, thick and complacent, tilted back his cup to swallow his last drop of gin. He stared morosely into the empty vessel, as though wishing he could climb inside and escape the situation entirely.
Kate felt suddenly drained. The enormity of the debt pressed down upon her like a great, invisible weight. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “To whom do you owe the money?”
Bertie brightened. “That’s the wonderful part. I know I’ve put us all in a tight spot, but it’s not as bad as it appears. A physician at St. Thomas, Dr. Michaelson, heard about the debt. You know him, don’t you? He was a colleague of father’s.”
“That’s the wonderful part?” Kate echoed wearily. She could just imagine the shameful rumors already swirling around the hospital.
“As a matter of fact, he was surprisingly understanding of our predicament. He said he’ll pay the debt and allow us to work off what we owe him—with interest, of course. In fact, I’ve already made the arrangements”
“It’s the only solution,” said George, finally rousing himself enough to take part in the discussion.
Kate looked at her brothers in amazement. Rather than expecting her to solve their problems, as was normally the case, they had actual
ly assumed the burden themselves. A glimmer of hope loosened the tight knot of fear in her chest.
Perhaps things weren’t as bleak as she’d feared. Although she didn’t know Dr. Michaelson personally, she’d seen him on his rounds. An older man with a shock of white hair and tightly trimmed beard, his manner struck her as rather stern and strict. A man who did not suffer fools.
Like their father, both George and Bertie were surgeons. But while their father had been well-respected and successful, George and Bertie barely managed to scrape by. Perhaps this would help turn things around.
Under Dr. Michaelson’s watchful eye, George might be convinced to give up his gin. Bertie might stop gambling. It would be difficult for them, but wasn’t this sort of supervision and tutelage exactly what they needed?
And best yet, if they didn’t like it, she wouldn’t be there to hear their complaints. She’d be abroad, serving as traveling companion to the elderly widows McBrayer. When she returned in four weeks time a semblance of order might be restored to their lives.
For Bertie and George to embrace the solution so willingly, well, surely it was an indication they understood the direness of their predicament. Finally they were facing the errors of their ways. That thought, as astonishing as it was unexpected, made her feel lighter than she had in years.
“It won’t be easy to work off a debt that size,” she cautioned.
Bertie shrugged. “Of course not. But what choice do we have? We must start somewhere. Our family honor is at stake.”
Kate arched a dark blond brow at his words. The time to consider their family honor was before the wager was made. Before the bottle of gin was emptied. Before their circumstances had been reduced to quibbling with the local greengrocer over the price of potatoes. But that was all behind them now.
“Well,” she said, rising from her seat, “I’m glad you’re being so sensible about it. I’ll have your shirts laundered and pressed before I leave tomorrow.”
Bertie and George exchanged a look. “About that, Kate…”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid there’s a slight misunderstanding. You see, it was your assistance that was requested.”
She turned, studying Bertie in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“Dr. Michaelson has just taken on a private patient, a soldier recently returned from the Crimea. Michaelson is in need of a competent nurse to help him care for the man.”
“But, how can I help him when I’m leaving for France first thing in the morning?”
“You mean, you were leaving.”
Icy dread stole over Kate as the significance of her brother’s words slowly penetrated. “Bertie, you can’t—”
“You’ll be happy to know I had no trouble at all finding a replacement to accompany the widows McBrayer abroad. It’s already been arranged. Once that was accomplished, I told Dr. Michaelson you would be ready to depart the hospital with him promptly at noon. That way, you’ll still be able to attend your daily morning duties at St. Thomas and collect your wages.”
Obviously pleased by the solution, George gave a curt nod. “So you see, it all works out rather nicely. The debt will be worked off, and there will be little disruption to our daily routine.”
Kate looked at her brothers, who stared back at her with an air of confident expectation. Of course they assumed the burden of paying the debt would fall on her shoulders. Wasn’t she always the one who cleaned up their messes? How foolish she’d been to believe for a second that they would assume responsibility.
A slow-burning rage coiled through her limbs. “No,” she said, speaking slowly and clearly. “No, I won’t do it.”
Bertie blinked. George, whose attention had been diverted by the task of coaxing another drop from the bottle of gin, looked up in confusion. “What’s that?”
“I didn’t make the wager,” Kate said, stiffening her spine. “I shouldn’t be expected to pay for it.”
Bertie’s expression of cocky confidence slowly drained away. Deep pink blotches of anger took its place. “So that’s the way it is, eh? After all George and I have done for you.”
“After all you’ve done for me—”
“I’ve already taken Dr. Michaelson’s fifty pounds,” Bertie interrupted. “George and I signed a note promising to pay him back per the terms of our agreement. It’s done. He could take our home, Kate. Ruin us professionally. While you traipse about the streets of Paris without a care in the world. Is that what you want?”
Kate’s brows snapped together. “A note? You and George signed a note? Without showing it to me first?”
George, who’d been slumped in his seat, arched upright in affront. “You’ll forget the house, along with all our household accounts, is held by Bertie and me. We do not require your permission to sign a note leveraging our assets in any way we see fit.”
True enough, Kate thought dismally. She had no rights of ownership to their home—even the wages she earned legally belonged to her brothers. In the eyes of the law, she ranked just above household chattel. She was as chained to George and Bertie as an anchor to a boat, and their foolish habits would sink her just as surely.
Her fists balled at her sides in frustration, she moved to the window and stared down at the street below. “Why couldn’t one of you go in my stead? You’re as able to care for a patient as I am.”
Bertie let out a sharp guffaw. “Dr. Michaelson requires the assistance of a nurse, not a surgeon. I should think you would be thanking us for this opportunity. Dr. Michaelson is a very influential man. If you perform your duties well, he might put in a good word for you with the hospital matron. A few more references like that, and you could become matron yourself by the time you’re thirty.”
Indeed. Kate’s stomach tightened. Her future loomed before her, a bleak and barren landscape from which there was no visible means of escape.
“In any event,” Bertie continued, “what could be more noble than this cause? A soldier in need of your care. As a matter of fact, the papers are lauding him as a returning hero.”
“Who is the patient?” she asked with a sigh.
“An army captain. James Lancaster is his name. Fairly influential family, as I understand it.”
Dull surprise shot through Kate. Her mind traveled back three years, back to a time before the cholera epidemic that had swept through London had claimed her parents. Her father had secured an invitation to a charity ball given by one of the directors of St. Thomas.
Kate remembered being instantly enthralled as she’d stepped into that enormous candlelit ballroom. She’d been intoxicated by the sheer loveliness of it, and that was before she’d even dared to sip a glass of champagne.
She remembered swaying to the swelling strains of the orchestra as it played from its discreet position behind a row of potted palms. She’d loved the dizzying array of gilt mirrors, loved their shimmering reflection of the elegantly dressed crowd. She’d been entranced by the way the dancers swept effortlessly across the floor, gliding through an endless series of quadrilles and waltzes.
And in the center of it all—or at least it appeared that way to her at the time—was James Lancaster. Tall, muscular, and strikingly handsome in a way that went beyond mere attractiveness. It wasn’t just his dashing uniform, or the way the candlelight warmed the streaks of gold in his thick chestnut hair, or the laughter that sparkled in his deep blue eyes.
He exuded an air of carefree virility, a dynamic combination of wealth, poise, and masculine confidence. He was the magnetic axis around which the females in the room spun and swayed, desperately vying for his attention.
Except Kate herself, of course. She knew better than to hope a man like that would notice her. She had enjoyed precisely two dances that evening. One with Bertie, the other with George.
Something in her expression must have given her thoughts away, for Bertie studied her curiously and asked, “Are you acquainted with the man?”
“Of course not,” she replied. “Why would Ja
mes Lancaster possibly know who I am?”
“So you’ll take the position?” This from George.
Kate brushed her foolish memories away. The ball had been years ago. She was no longer an impressionable, love-struck girl. She was a proper nurse with a proper job to do, and there was no place in her life for wishing things might be different. She straightened her apron, flicked a speck of dust from the sleeve of her blouse, and sent her brothers a cool nod.
“It appears I have little choice in the matter.”
Chapter Two
The insistent knocking—a sharp, impatient rap that wouldn’t stop no matter how hard James Lancaster squeezed his eyes shut and willed it to—slowly penetrated his foggy mind. He turned toward the source of the offending racket just as the library door opened. Five shadowy figures loomed in the hallway, none of whom looked particularly pleased to see him.
His mother led the charge, naturally. She was the only person in all of London who would dare blaze into his home uninvited. James stifled a groan. The woman was bad enough on her own. When she came with an entourage, she was intolerable.
James’s footman, Owen, stood to the left of the group, looking both annoyed and apologetic at the intrusion. James dismissed the man with a curt wave of his hand. Ignoring the dull pounding in his head, he braced himself up on his elbows. His sheets pooled about his hips, leaving him naked from the waist up.
As his recent injury prevented him from mounting the stairs to his chamber, his household staff had set up a bed for him in the library. The accommodation had been a necessary convenience, but he realized now what a ridiculous sight he must appear.
Unshaven, undressed, unkempt—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d bothered with a proper bath. Irritation and embarrassment flooded through him in equal measure. But he’d be damned if he’d show it. Instead, he sent the group before him a cocky nod of greeting.
“Good morning,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise. It appears I have guests.”
Out Of Her League, An Erotic Romance Page 1