by Cheryl Bolen
Poufy? Still?
Ivonne touched her hair and peered into the mirror over her shoulder.
Miss Rossington snuck up behind her. In one deft move, she plucked something from Ivonne’s hair. She displayed the coral petal for the others to see.
A fresh round of giggles erupted from the Dundercrofts. Glee pinkened their already ruddy complexions. Bright red blotches covered their faces, chests, and arms.
Miss Kingsley appeared behind them.
Ivonne’s breath caught. She was in attendance tonight? Did Allen know?
An exquisite redhead, the woman had been in the Caribbean with her brother and father for the past three years. At one time, Ivonne had thought Allen enamored of the beauty.
“Really, girls.” Miss Kingsley emphasized the word, indicating what she thought of them. “I’m certain if Lord and Lady Wimpleton wanted their guests to know Miss Wimpleton’s joyous news, they’d make an announcement this evening.”
No condemnation in her gaze, she flashed Ivonne a brilliant smile. “Sometimes, people prefer to keep the arrangements to themselves for a time. A promise to marry is, after all, a very special occurrence, and one to cherish, not toss about like a shuttlecock during a game.”
Miss Rossington scowled at Miss Kingsley.
Lydia Farnsworth emerged from behind the screen. “Miss Wimpleton, if you’ll permit me, you’ve a few leaves and rose petals in your hair.”
She pointed to Ivonne’s head. “Just there, below your crown.”
Ivonne braved a smile. No doubt they considered her a promiscuous tart now that she was supposedly betrothed. She couldn’t refute a word of it. She nodded and turned to face the mirror once more. “If you would be so kind.”
Giving Ivonne a reassuring smile, Miss Kingsley took her turn behind the painted screen.
Through lowered lashes, Ivonne observed Miss Rossington in the mirror’s reflection. She sank gracefully into a chair before another mirror at the same table where Ivonne sat. The Dundercrofts huddled on either side like dumpy sentinels.
Two other tables and she must choose to sit at this one?
A smug smile stretched Miss Rossington’s lips, exposing her perfect teeth.
What, no feline incisors? No claws hidden inside her gloves or tail twitching beneath her skirt? No hissing or scratching? No gagging and choking on an enormous, hairball, more’s the pity?
“Mr. Faulkenhurst is in attendance this evening,” Miss Rossington fairly purred as she removed her gloves.
Ah, baring our claws now, are we?
Her cat eyes narrowed. “Newly arrived from India, I believe.”
“Oh, he’s a handsome one.” Miss Lyselle sighed, a dreamy expression on her chubby face.
“No, dear, he won’t do at all.” Miss Dundercroft admonished her younger sister with a stern stare. “Not only is he a penniless second son,” disgust pinched her mouth, “the man’s disfigured.”
How dare she?
Ivonne straightened her spine, prepared to give the haughty chit a proper set down. “He most certain—”
“They say,” Miss Rossington ran her fingers along her fan’s carved ivory guard, her
sultry gaze affixed on Ivonne, “he lost his manhood to those barbarians.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Wimpletons’ mahogany longcase clock chimed the early morning hour of two. Legs stretched before him and his ankles crossed, Chance settled further into the leather wingback chair before the library’s blazing hearth. He took a long pull from the glass he held, welcoming the brandy’s heat sluicing to his gut.
In the silence of the slumbering household, he’d grown chilled.
The house proved drafty, and London’s temperatures were far cooler than those he’d become accustomed to in India. He’d forgotten how penetrating the damp could be. After asking a footman to light the logs arranged in the Rumford fireplace, Chance had spent the last hour staring into the soothing, hypnotic flames.
Yesterday, he’d gratefully accepted Allen’s invitation to stay with the Wimpletons until he became settled in England. Chance boasted no residence of his own in London, and although he could open his brother’s house in Mayfair, that seemed more bother than necessary. Especially since Chance didn’t know how long he’d be in Town. He had several business dealings to attend to before he trotted off to Suttoncliffe Hall and surprised his family.
He hadn’t written to inform them of his return or that he’d been injured. They had worries enough of their own. Thad, his brother, and Thad’s wife expected their first child any day, and Chance’s sister, Annabel, had her hands full with her scapegrace of a husband.
The rhythmic tick-tocking of the clock beckoned sleep, yet slumber eluded Chance as it often had these past months. When he drifted into a fitful rest, nightmares awakened him. Drenched in sweat, his heart pounding with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil, he’d stare into the darkness until the horrific visions faded into the shadows of his mind.
Concentrating on Ivy’s serene features, sweet smile, and the dimple in her right cheek banished the memories until sleep seduced him once more.
A greater concern this night was the damage Kirkpatrick’s jealousy and flapping tongue had caused. Not only had he stretched Chance’s suggestion that Ivy was promised to another into a full-fledged contracted betrothal, the blackguard had suggested the wedding would take place within a month or two.
As Chance came in from the terrace, he overheard the captain speaking to a small crowd
“Lord Wimpleton insists the announcement will be forthcoming any day,” Kirkpatrick said.
Lying cawker.
At Chance’s behest, Sethwick questioned the captain. “How is it you are privy to such intimate information?”
Kirkpatrick told Sethwick, in addition to several other guests, “Lord Wimpleton requested an audience with me the moment I reentered the ballroom.”
What drivel.
According to Captain Kirkpatrick, Lord Wimpleton apologized for his daughter’s fast behavior as well as leading the poor widower on.
“My daughter knows full well I negotiated a settlement with another gentleman long before either she or I made your acquaintance, Captain Kirkpatrick. Please accept my humblest apologies, and rest assured, if she were not already spoken for, I would be most happy to consider your offer.”
Blatant lies, according to Allen and his father.
Recalling the conversation, Chance scowled.
If Kirkpatrick couldn’t have Ivy, he was determined no one else should either. He’d backed Lord Wimpleton and her into a corner. Either they produce her intended or henceforth be labeled liars.
And the fault was Chance’s.
Intent on protecting her, he’d lost control for one brief moment.
God Almighty, he’d only made matters worse, bloody fool. Guilt and remorse gnawed at him. He examined every angle of the situation, trying to arrive at an amenable solution. If only he were unencumbered ... and wealthy.
He shut his eyes against the remorse. Ivy’s features immediately floated before him.
She had blossomed into a rare beauty. He’d known she would.
Her hair, the richest sable, had been as silky beneath his chin as he’d imagined. Her pearly skin, smoother than a rose petal, begged to be touched. Her thick-lashed eyes, stormy-sky gray one minute and sage green with silvery flecks the next, reflected the peace of the deepest forest. And her lips, full and luscious, would have tempted Adam in the Garden of Eden.
Not the typical haut ton measure of loveliness, no, his Ivy was something far more exceptional. An unpretentious dove amongst strutting peacocks and brazen parrots.
Opening his eyes, Chance twisted his mouth into a smirk. Drink had him waxing poetic.
He swirled the glass of cognac. The fire’s glow lightened the brandy’s umber hue to mellow amber. He’d indulged more than he ought, but he’d changed his mind about taking a dose of laudanum.
While abroad, he’d
seen too many opium addicts and detested using the tincture. A dram or two of strong spirits proved a better choice to induce sleep. His lips curled into a self-deprecatory smile. The three prior glasses of brandy he’d imbibed could hardly be considered medicinal.
He uncrossed his ankles and laid his head against the chair’s high back, watching the fire’s shadows dance and stretch across the ceiling.
The boring-as-stale-bread novel he’d attempted to read earlier lay unopened on the table beside him. Chance drummed his fingers on the chair’s arm. He ached to play the piano in the drawing room. A consummate pianist in his youth, these past six years there’d been few opportunities to indulge in the pleasurable pastime.
Despite his father’s adamant disapproval of Chance’s womanish obsession, his mother had encouraged his playing. Then Mother died, and Father began pressuring him to find a suitable wife.
One with a nice, fat purse.
He didn’t want to wed any woman except Ivy. Right before he’d left for India, he’d approached Lord Wimpleton and asked for her hand.
The man had laughed, though not unkindly. “My daughter’s much too young for me to consider any talk of marriage. Return when she’s older and you have something besides a besotted heart to offer her. Then, I’ll consider your suit.”
Offer her? What?
A fortune.
How?
India.
More than a few nabobs had purchased a seat in Parliament and risen to the ton’s top tiers after acquiring a fortune via trade with India. Chance possessed no interest in Parliament or government, but he had hoped to become modestly prosperous. Enough that Lord Wimpleton would consider granting him his daughter’s hand in marriage.
Unfortunately, his duties for the East India Company Troops allowed minimal time for business ventures. Aside from a single investment he’d made with a British businessman, Clement Robinson, when Chance first arrived in Madras, no further opportunities to pursue that avenue had arisen.
Not long after meeting Robinson, Chance had been transferred to Calcutta and then moved to four other provinces, each remoter than the last. He’d eventually arrived in Maratha Territory, where he’d been gravely wounded.
Although he’d attempted to reach Robinson several times, after two years without success, Chance gave up. He’d been made a May Game of, and the paltry inheritance Mother left him had been stolen by an unscrupulous scoundrel.
So, Chance had stayed in India. His aspirations of marrying Ivy shriveled into crumbs of crushed hope, and the arid desert winds scattered them into oblivion. If he couldn’t make her his wife, he wouldn’t wed at all.
An unpleasant notion burst into his thoughts.
Bloody hell.
What if Lambert or Mrs. Washburn had yammered about the proposed union between Chance and her? He would have written and told his father he refused the match, except the postal service in the remote provinces wasn’t to be relied upon.
Due to the frequent movement of East India Troops, mail delivery was delayed or, oftentimes, didn’t reach the person intended at all. In fact, Chance hadn’t received the first of Ivy’s correspondences until after he’d lost what meager monies he had possessed. He had nothing to offer her and did what he believed best: ignored her letters, telling himself she would soon find someone to give her heart to.
Except she hasn’t give her heart to anyone in all this time. Why?
Splaying the fingers of his ruined hand, he stared at the empty space where the digits ought to be. Peculiarly, but he felt them at times. They itched, ached, twitched—not in actuality, of course, but phantom sensations of what once was. At times, he even tried to pick up items with the missing appendages.
Losing himself in the magic of music had been his singular passion, other than Ivy. Now, both were lost to him.
Sighing, he set aside the brandy. Brooding served no purpose. After shoving to his feet, he banked the fire before circling the room and blowing out the candles, except one three-branched candelabrum. A final glance at the fireplace assured him the meshed brass guard prevented embers from escaping.
Determined to put the day behind him, he snatched the candelabrum and exited the room. Across the hall, the drawing room door stood open. Lid closed, the grand piano washed in the moon’s silvery glow beckoned him. He stood in the doorway for several long minutes, his emotions vacillating.
A scan of the corridor confirmed Chance alone remained below at this ungodly hour. He advanced into the room, standing unsure for a moment. He placed the candles atop the piano and ran a hand along the carved mahogany. A truly grand instrument.
After shrugging out of his coat, he tossed the cutaway on a needlepoint parlor chair. Before he sat, he unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and rolled them to his elbows. The ivory keys gleamed in the soft light. He rested a tentative hand upon their surface, relishing their familiar cool presence beneath his fingertips.
His useless left hand lay on his thigh. He ran his right fingertips across the keys and, pressing the quiet pedal with his foot, played a familiar melody, one-handed.
“Falcon?” Ivy whispered his name, her voice a blend of curiosity and wonder.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ivonne tossed the bedcovers off and sat up.
What was the time?
After lighting a candle, she examined the bedside clock. Past two.
Releasing a beleaguered sigh, she flopped onto her back. She would be a sleep-deprived disaster in the morning. Maybe she would stay in bed the entire day and wallow in her doldrums.
Miss Rossington’s shocking revelation about Falcon had made sleep impossible. Ivonne hadn’t been capable of returning to the ball either. She feared the moment she laid eyes on him, she would burst into tears. Learning of his shattering injury from Miss Rossington—of all people—was beyond the pale. Feigning a headache, Ivonne had bolted to her bedchamber.
She eyed the clock again.
A trip below stairs was in order. Father possessed a number of yawn-inspiring books. She would select the most boring tome on philosophy the library had to offer—Descartes or Hume would do nicely—and be asleep within fifteen minutes.
Commonsense halted her halfway out the bedchamber door. She wore nothing but her lacy nightgown. Gads. That wouldn’t do. Snatching her robe from the foot of the bed, she paused. What if someone else prowled about below? Not likely at this hour.
It mattered not. She required a tedious book to put her to sleep.
Ivonne shoved her arms into the sleeves. Silver candleholder in hand, she made for the library. Halting piano music lured her into the drawing room.
Falcon sat before the instrument, utter defeat in his hunched shoulders and dejected profile.
Lonely, lost soul.
Her heart wrenched.
“Falcon?”
He stopped playing the instant she uttered his name. Turning his head, he faced her. Vulnerability tinged with embarrassment lingered in his gaze. His beautiful eyes searched hers.
What did he seek?
Pity? Compassion? Sympathy?
Each overwhelmed her, but he didn’t need those emotions at present.
He required hope. Acceptance. Strength. Love.
Falcon’s keen focus sank to her attire then to her bare toes. His lips twitched, and warmth swept her cheeks.
At least she’d thought to throw on her robe. Appearing before a gentleman in her nightwear with her unruly hair billowing about her shoulders was most improper. Truth to tell, at the moment, she didn’t care. The lavender silk nightgown and robe swished around her ankles and calves as she hurried to him. Her cold feet sank into the lush carpet.
Ivonne placed her candlestick next to the other candleholder atop the piano. Ignoring wisdom, she sank onto the bench beside him. The heat of his solid thigh wedged against hers sent a strange shock along her nerves.
Neither of them made an effort to put a suitable distance between them. But then, nothing about being here in the middle of the night clothed in a
diaphanous nightgown and robe, unchaperoned to boot, could be considered remotely acceptable.
If caught, she would be ruined.
She gave a mental shrug. That didn’t matter. Everything in her ached to be with Falcon, to seize whatever precious moments destiny afforded her. Ivonne’s need to be with him at this moment shoved aside the sting of his prior disinterest.
Drinking in his features, her focus hovered on the fresh scar marring his handsome face. She longed to kiss the pinkish mark, to somehow convey that she found knowing he’d suffered excruciating to bear.
God above, she’d missed him.
Her eyes misting with tears, she directed her attention to his hands lest she cause him more discomfit. She gasped, barely suppressing the cry surging to her throat.
His poor hand.
Falcon made no attempt to hide it.
Ivonne blinked away burning tears.
Two fingers. Gone. Falcon, a gifted pianist, would make music no more.
Lifting her gaze to his, she forced a facade of composure.
He returned her regard, his gaze guarded and appraising. This was not the carefree, jovial individual she’d known most of her life. He’d suffered, and suffered greatly. What happened in India to change him thus?
“How ...” She cleared her throat, determined to show the same fortitude he did. She deliberately didn’t return her scrutiny to his hand. No doubt, he was self-conscious enough already. “How did you come by your injury?”
Lifting the limb, he allowed her to see the vicious scar disfiguring his arm from hand to elbow.
She reached to touch the puckered flesh, but hesitated. He didn’t pull away. Ever-so-gently, she trailed her fingers along the rough skin.
Dear God, the agony he must have endured.
Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. She swallowed them away. “Does it hurt terribly?”
Falcon shrugged, his broad shoulders bunching beneath the light linen shirt.
“Sometimes more than others.” He flexed his remaining fingers. “My movement improves daily.”
He lost his manhood.