by Connie Lane
“Do I?” Nick scrubbed his hands over his eyes. “I remember you didn’t want to come with us. I remember you took a chunk out of Hexam’s hand.” He scrubbed a finger under his nose and winced. “You poked me in the nose. I remember that, too. I also remember that I sent you home with Newbury.”
Willie clutched her hands at her waist. “It is not Newbury’s trustworthiness you need question and you must not hold him accountable. He went to fetch your driver, just as you asked. By the time he returned, I was nowhere to be found. I suppose he assumed I’d grown weary of waiting and had gone home on my own. As you can see, I did not. I found my way here instead and I spent the night right over there.” With a tip of her head, she indicated a chair that stood next to the door that led to Nick’s dressing room.
“But why? Don’t you realize…”
The full import of the situation washed over Nick like a cold wave. “Good heavens, Miss Culpepper, don’t you see what you’ve done? Do you realize you’ve spent the night? Here. With me! And though you assure me there was no impropriety between us and I have no reason to disbelieve you…The rest of the world doesn’t know that. Surely, Miss Culpepper, you will be ruined!”
“Do you think so?” If Nick didn’t know better, he would have thought the expression that crossed Willie’s face was nearly a smile. “Are you saying, m’lord, that no righteous man will ever marry me?”
“I’m afraid so.” Nick knew enough of the ways of the world to know it was true, even if Willie didn’t.
“What on earth possessed you?” he asked her. “Your father—”
“Do you suppose any father as virtuous as mine would ever welcome such a daughter back into the fold?”
“You make it sound like a good thing.” Nick knew it was not. Especially if the Reverend Mister Culpepper or one of his strapping sons decided this was a matter of honor and, as such, needed to be dealt with at dawn. It was bad enough he’d had a part, however unwilling, in ruining Willie’s reputation. He had no desire to splatter Culpepper blood in the process.
He might actually have had the chance to point that out if Willie hadn’t marched to the windows and dragged open the draperies.
Sunlight flooded the room and like a vampire in a folk tale, Nick moaned and turned away from the light, ducking his head beneath the blankets.
That was when he realized that he hadn’t a stitch on.
Blinking against the combined glare of the light and Willie’s steady and growing-more-impatient-by-the minute gaze, he peeked over the edge of the blanket. “You say you’ve been here all night?”
“That’s right.” Willie threw open the window and a stream of bracing morning air poured into the room. She headed for the door. “And now, I shall be waiting downstairs.” She paused with her hand on the brass doorknob and gave him a look so much like the one of the avenging angel in his dream it made Nick shiver. “You are going to take me home, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Do you think that’s wise? I mean, staying out all night and then arriving home with a worse-for-wear gentleman…” He didn’t need to explain; he knew she was fully aware of the consequences.
Which didn’t explain the smile that flitted across Willie’s face.
Nick had no choice but to acquiesce. Though he had known her for but a short time, he knew to do anything else in the face of Willie’s determination would be about as successful as convincing the Blades and the Dashers to end their rivalry. It would also be less than honorable.
“Yes. Of course I’ll accompany you home. It’s just that…”
Thinking that he might have undressed in front of Willie Culpepper should have stirred at least some remorse in him. She was a virgin, after all. And he had the one thousand pounds to prove it.
Yet the thought that she had played him false and made herself at home here against his orders and without his knowledge sparked a note of mischief. Nick grinned.
“If you were here in the room when I came up…. You are too wicked, Willie. How much did you see?”
Willie’s spine went rigid. She threw back her shoulders. “See? You mean—”
“I mean that I apparently did not disrobe in my dressing room.” Nick braced himself on one elbow, enjoying the chagrin. “Which must surely mean—”
She clicked her tongue at the same time she opened the door that led into the passageway beyond. “I assure you, sir,” she said, her voice as icy as the look she shot him, “virgins are not so desperate as you might think. I turned my back when you undressed.”
Nick would have liked nothing more than to believe her.
He actually might have, if she had not left the room smiling.
Although she had been accused of as much by her father, Willie was not a willful woman—except on those occasions when she knew beyond a doubt that she was right. She had never thought of herself as cunning, either, though there were more times than she cared to remember when Papa insisted she was. Having made the acquaintance of any number of Madame Brenard’s girls who did not suffer the woes of either her flaming hair or her freckled skin and Madame herself who was so clever with her sewing needle, she did not hold too high an opinion of herself when it came to either her artistic skills or her appearance. She was certainly not deceitful—unless some extenuating circumstance demanded it. Nor was she uncaring, mean-spirited or likely to go about spreading a Banbury story of a cock and a bull.
Still, she could not help but grin when, in the passageway outside Somerton’s bedchamber, she leaned against the door and breathed a sigh of relief.
As willful, cunning, mean-spirited and deceitful as it was, she’d done it, and successfully, too!
Thank goodness Somerton’s brain was still muddled from the night’s revels. Otherwise, he might have noticed that all the while she was doing her best to sound dispassionate about spending the night in his bedchamber, her hands were shaking and her breaths were coming far too fast.
It was nearly three o’clock when Somerton had finally stumbled up to bed. With only the light of the single candle he carried to show him the way, he staggered into the room, slamming into furniture and using words Willie had never heard at home and would not have known at all had it not been for the conscientious tutelage of Madame Brenard. Unaware of Willie where she stood in the deep shadows, he went about his business.
He pulled off his neckcloth and dropped it on the floor. The warm glow of his candle brushed his skin and added lines and planes to his face that made it look as if it had been sculpted by an artist with a sense of the divine and a penchant for temptation.
He undid his shirt, slipped it off, and tossed it over his shoulder.
And she noted the fine sprinkling of golden hair on his chest, the definition of the muscles in his arms, the bare skin that glowed warm and so inviting in the candlelight that her fingers itched to touch him.
He discarded his trousers.
And Willie’s fantasies took flight.
Somerton’s legs were long and well shaped. His backside (her cheeks flamed simply at the memory) was firm. The rest of him…
Then and now, the very thought caused Willie’s breath to catch in her throat.
There was only one consolation in the whole business. She had not lied when he questioned her about what she’d seen. When she realized Somerton meant to undress, she had turned her back.
She considered it a kindness that she had neglected to remind him that there was a mirror in the room.
Like the scalding touch of the Indian sun, heat curled through Willie.
If she wasn’t careful, she would lose sight of her purpose.
And that would not do at all.
Her mind made up, Willie headed down the passageway in search of Somerton’s breakfast room and the meal she had no doubt Newbury would have laid out even though his master was in no mood for it. A cup of tea would fortify her against the ordeal that yet lay ahead.
All she needed was for Somerton to rise, get dressed and accompany her home so she could
follow through with the rest of her plan.
And the rest of her life.
A life without being shackled to the loathsome Reverend Childress Smithe.
There was no joyfulness in revenge.
Or so Papa always said.
Obviously, he had never been fortunate enough to have a moment such as this.
Already seated in Somerton’s carriage, Willie sat forward and watched him maneuver his way from the front door of his grand home and down the stairs, each of his steps careful and calculated, as if moving too thoughtlessly or too quickly would be too painful a prospect to even consider.
He was scrubbed as bright as a new penny, wearing doeskin trousers that showed his muscular legs to perfection above half Wellingtons. His cutaway coat of superfine was of the deepest brown, a splendid contrast to his golden hair. His neckcloth was flawless and so blindingly white, it provided a particularly stark contrast to the decidedly green cast of his face.
“Miss Culpepper.” Ducking his head as he entered the carriage, Somerton offered a greeting and glanced a look over Willie as if to assure himself that she was real and not a creation of his drunken imagination. To his credit, he did not look disappointed—at least not too disappointed—to see that she was, in fact, quite genuine.
The carriage started out at a leisurely pace and though the horses were so perfectly matched and the appointments of the carriage so perfectly luxurious as to make it the smoothest, most comfortable, most perfect ride Willie had ever enjoyed, Somerton pulled a face. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the leather carriage interior.
Except for his occasional moans when they turned or his groans when they encountered other street traffic and were thus delayed in their journey, they rode in silence. Finally, the scene outside the carriage windows changed from the lavishness of the West End and its elegant homes and parks to the less vaulted and far more ordinary quarters of the masses. The streets narrowed and the light did not flow so freely into the carriage as it did in the wide avenues of the fashionable. Gingerly, Somerton sat up. He ran his tongue over his lips. “Miss Culpepper, before I return you to your home, we must talk. You must understand. I—”
“Must I?” As ready as she was to make him a part of her plot, Willie was not certain she wanted to forgive him. At least not so easily. “I think you’ll agree, it is too early in the morning for rationalizations.”
“If that’s what you were expecting then I am sorry to disappoint you. I never rationalize. I also make it a habit never to ask for forgiveness before noon.”
“No doubt because you are usually not up and about before that hour.”
“True. But I have been known to make exceptions. Both to the hour of my rising and to my usual habit of not begging for forgiveness. This is an unusual circumstance, I think you’ll agree.”
If it was as close to an apology as he would ever come, Willie thought it only right to provide fair warning: It was not nearly close enough. “Do you mean to say that it is unusual for you and your friends to drink yourselves senseless?” she asked.
“Not that, of course, but—”
“And that it is unusual for you to involve a young lady in one of your ridiculous wagers?”
“Well, we have been known to do that occasionally, but only when the young lady in question is someone we know and she is eager to take part in our lark and—”
“And do you often embarrass her, then? In front of a whole host of strangers? Do you often kidnap a young lady and then parade her in front of your friends while you announce to all the world that she is a monstrosity? A misfit? A freak of nature because she happens to hold true to those virtues I daresay you would consider as old-fashioned as powdered wigs and breeches?”
“Never have before,” he admitted and he looked at her with far more honesty than was proper for a man who hardly knew her. His expression softened until, finally, one golden eyebrow slipped up to a particularly cocky—and quite unexpectedly charming—angle. “If it’s any consolation to you at all, rest assured that I am paying for my sins.”
“It is no consolation,” Willie announced. She forced herself to look away and concentrate on the scene rolling by outside her window. Otherwise, she might be tempted to admit that his words caused her heart to soften.
She did not have time to consider it. At that moment, the carriage pulled to a stop and Willie’s heart leaped into her throat.
“Home,” she said, glancing out the window, then glancing away again, lest the very sight of the Church of Divine and Imperishable Justice cause her to lose heart. Before she could talk herself into cowering in the corner, she put her hand on the door. “I will simply—”
“Oh, no.” In one fluid movement, Somerton removed her hand. Now that it was too late to redeem himself, he was playing the gentleman.
“I promised I would accompany you home and damn it, that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” he said. The pressure of his hand against hers increased ever so gently. “All the way home. It is a thing you need to learn about me, you see. When I decide to do a thing, I do it the way it is supposed to be done. If you’ll allow me, Miss Culpepper—” With his free hand, he reached for the door.
Before he ever had a chance to touch it, it flew open.
Like a storm cloud, a shape filled the carriage doorway and blocked the sun. Compact frame. Thick neck. Bald head. A man rolled up on the balls of his feet and poked his head into the carriage and an all-too-familiar face came into thunderous view.
Now that the moment had arrived, Willie found herself feeling as if she’d run up a flight of stairs. Before she even knew she was doing it, she had Somerton’s fingers clutched in hers.
“Papa.” Willie tipped her head in the kind of greeting she was used to giving her father as she bustled back and forth between the table where he ate his meals and the kitchen where she cooked them. “I trust you are well this morning.”
“Well?” Her father’s question rumbled right over Willie’s words, grinding them to dust. His eyes as piercing as a hawk’s, his face mottled with emotion, the Reverend Mister Culpepper’s gaze settled on the spot where Willie’s and Somerton’s fingers were entwined.
“What is the meaning of this?” Culpepper’s gaze shot up and he glared at Somerton who, much to the good reverend’s consternation, met the look as affably as if they’d been introduced over tea. “I asked you a question, sir. What is the meaning of this? Who are you? And what in the name of Peter and Paul do you think you are doing with my daughter?”
“What we are attempting to do is descend from my carriage.” The chill of his words caused Culpepper to back away. Still holding Willie’s hand, Somerton climbed down, cringing only slightly when he encountered the sunshine. He assisted Willie to the pavement and it wasn’t until she was settled that he let go of her hand.
They found themselves in the middle of nothing less than chaos. All around them, work-hardened fellows carried trunks and furniture and loaded it onto waiting wagons. Nearby, a coach was standing in the ready and Jacob, Aaron, Ezekiel, Hosea, Jedidiah, and Isaac were waiting nearby. One or two of them looked relieved to see Willie. One or two looked to be on the verge of smiling their greetings. One or two more looked as outraged as their father. Her brothers knew better than to insinuate themselves into their father’s business, and Willie knew better than to expect them to. They did, however, stare in wonder and their staring caught the crowd’s attention.
The workers stopped in the midst of their labors. The members of the church who had come to wish the family Godspeed on their journey to the wilds to convert the even wilder and unquestionably godless heathens stood with their mouths open. Quiet descended, broken only here and there along the street by the sounds of windows being opened and neighbors sticking out their heads to see what the fuss was all about.
“Ah, the scent of scandal’s in the air!” Somerton did not sound especially happy at the prospect. He did, however, sound as if it were exactly what he had been expecting.
Which was fine with Willie. It was what she had been expecting as well.
Raising her chin, she cast a glance over the people who, only the night before, had stood shoulder to shoulder with her in church, singing about their obligation to feel charity and kindness for their fellow man (or woman), no matter what his (or her) sins happened to be. Already, most of them refused to meet her eyes. A few others whispered behind their hands. Her gaze far steadier than her singing voice had ever been, Amabel Miller gave Willie a long and careful look, then pointedly turned to gaze at the closed front door of the church.
As if irate papas and public scenes were nothing new to Somerton—and nothing he couldn’t easily handle—he managed a pained but cordial grin aimed all around and a second grin, no more cordial and just a bit more pained, at Culpepper. “So sorry for the inconvenience,” he said. “And sorry to tell you, sir, that you’ve got it all wrong. I do hope you will allow me to explain.”
Showing far more self-control than was his custom, Culpepper rolled back on his heels. “Very well, sir,” he said. “Explain.”
Somerton smiled his gratitude and much as he’d done the night before when he was speaking to the Blades and the Dashers, he eased himself into the telling of the story. He cleared his throat. He drew in a breath. He opened his mouth, ready, Willie was sure, to lay out the whole of the story as logically and as clearly as he could.
The words never came.
“Explain…” Somerton mumbled the word. “Well, you see, it’s devilishly hard to explain but I can tell you, sir, that you have a lovely daughter.” He cast a brittle smile in Willie’s direction that spoke volumes. “She joined me for…well, something of a lark.”
“A lark, eh?” Culpepper gave the word the kind of emphasis that said he wouldn’t know a lark if one came calling. “Tell me this, sir, though I am loath to call you that, for I am not certain you are the gentleman you claim to be. Tell me, why did you want her?”