by Cheryl Bolen
Last night had been a calamity, and except for learning the proposed marriage agreement with Mrs. Washburn was cancelled, little about this day had gone right either. He sighed and stood.
“The moment Belamont returns, please tell him I require an immediate appointment.”
“I shall, sir, you can be certain.” His relief tangible, Tobbins attempted a smile and opened the office door.
“I’m staying at Viscount Wimpleton’s residence. Please send word to me there.” Chance slapped his hat on his head. He didn’t have a card to offer with the Wimpletons’ address on it. “Do you know the place?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Tobbins continued to bob his head, reminding Chance of a nervous quail. “Berkeley Square in Mayfair.”
With a curt nod, Chance made his escape. Lost in thought, he set a brisk pace for several blocks. He crossed the street, dodging a landau stuffed with giggling misses. He recognized two of the fivesome, the Dundercroft sisters. He’d made their acquaintance last night.
Poised beneath her lacy parasol, the younger smiled and waved to him.
The elder swatted her sister’s hand and, after sending him a glare of reproach, scolded her sister soundly.
It seemed one of the Misses Dundercroft had taken distinct exception to him and the other a definite fancy. He executed a mocking half-bow and allowed a droll smile to tilt his mouth.
A young Corinthian astride a magnificent Arabian trotted by.
Chance needed to purchase a horse—a serviceable, though not expensive, stepper. Perchance Allen could be imposed upon to accompany him to Tattersall’s tomorrow.
And perhaps he had an acquaintance who, for a nominal fee, could investigate Robinson and locate his place of business in London for Chance as well. He must at least attempt to regain his lost funds. He blew out a long puff of air. He had about as much chance of that as a jellyfish surviving in the Great Thar Desert.
Rounding a corner, he strode in the direction of St. James Street. He’d sold his lieutenant’s commission an hour ago and, after depositing the nominal amount in the bank, had continued on to his solicitor’s. Chance had wanted to be on his way to Suttoncliffe the day after tomorrow. By Sunday at the latest, but Belamont’s absence complicated matters.
Perhaps Chance wouldn’t remain in Town after all. He’d waited this long to speak with the man. Another week seemed insignificant. Besides, his curiosity was aroused. Were his papers and correspondences at Suttoncliffe Hall?
If not, where the devil were they?
He flicked his pocket watch open. Quarter to five. He was late, but White’s was only a couple of blocks farther along this street, and Allen would linger. After all these years apart, their friendship hadn’t waned. Nevertheless, Chance increased his pace.
The morning and afternoon hadn’t gone as anticipated.
First, he’d overslept. No surprise there.
After seeing Ivy partially dishabille, a seductress in that clingy purple gown and robe, he’d given in to the urge to kiss her senseless—something he had yearned to do for years. He didn’t regret kissing her. Never had a woman’s lips tasted sweeter, made all the more so by his unprofessed love for her.
Love he didn’t have the right to proclaim.
Had her tears been born of pity and disgust?
Last night, that notion fueled the anger he’d kept repressed regarding the war, his injuries, his lost fortune, and his father’s meddling. His stride slowed. He’d believed Ivy different than the other women who scorned him because of his disfigurements. Her joy upon seeing him in the arbor had given him momentary hope. Her responses to his kisses had fueled his corkbrained optimism further.
Lying awake in the plush, oversized bed, the most comfortable place he’d rested in six years, his thoughts repeatedly turned to her asleep in her room. Why had she come below stairs in the first place? She’d seemed as eager to see him as he’d been to see her. She had enjoyed their kiss too.
Now they were estranged, and he had only himself to blame.
Chance couldn’t bear to have her angry with him. If she refused to speak to him ever again, he wouldn’t blame her. He’d been an ass of the worst sort. He must to make amends and apologize to her before he left for Suttoncliffe.
Actually, his time in England might very well be limited altogether.
Something Sethwick’s viscountess had said at the ball last night piqued Chance’s interest. Her late father had built a shipping conglomeration, which she now owned. Stapleton Shipping and Supplies had offices around the world, including Boston, Massachusetts. Chance was of a mind to inquire if any positions were available in the American offices.
Seeing Ivy again had made him realize why he’d left England the first time; aside from needing a fortune to entice her father that is.
To have the object of his affection this close, yet always unattainable was unbearable. The bowels of Hades boasted lavish comfort in comparison to the torment. He wasn’t confident he wouldn’t blurt his feelings to her at some point.
Her repugnance toward his injury was painful enough to tolerate, but that she wasn’t ever allowed to accept his love, even more so. Lord Wimpleton had made it clear that Chance wasn’t worthy of his daughter.
No, that was unfair.
Increasing his pace, Chance switched his cane to his other hand then immediately transferred the staff back again. Blast, so easy to forget he wasn’t whole anymore.
Wimpleton hadn’t refused his proposal outright. The viscount had told him to return when he had something to offer. Chance had failed in that respect.
If Ivy had even hinted last night that she returned his regard with the same fervency he felt toward her, he would ignore his circumstances and ask her to marry him. She was of age, and Wimpleton didn’t seem the sort to disown his daughter for marrying without permission. But was she the sort of woman to openly defy her father?
Her response to Chance in the drawing room gave him little confidence Ivy was smitten enough to cause a scandal. Besides, she’d lived a life of luxury and privilege. While not a spoilt tonnish damsel, she would find the meager existence he could provide more than difficult. She deserved the finest life had to offer, and he couldn’t give her that.
He wasn’t the sort to tap into her marriage settlement to make ends meet, either. Those funds belonged to her, to do with as she wished. So, he found himself precisely where he’d begun six years ago.
In love and without a means of providing for her.
Only a fool believed love was enough to make a go of it.
Oh, but he would play the fool a thousand times over for one chance to make Ivy his. He’d gamble his life for that opportunity and worry about how to care for her afterward. He would bury his pride and accept any employment offer that came his way.
Chance smiled as a ragged urchin raced down the street, a scraggly black dog at his bare heels.
He didn’t understand Ivy’s lack of suitable beaus. He might not be able to claim her, but, as long as he had a breath in his body, she’d ever settle for the likes of that piss maker, Kirkpatrick.
Ever.
White’s came into view. The Duke of Argyll and Lord Worcester sat in the bow window, no doubt making ludicrous wagers on everything from where a bird dropping might land on the pavement to whether a passerby might sneeze or fart.
Chance supposed those with deep pockets didn’t think twice about wasting funds. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d wagered on anything, unless he counted the investment fiasco with Robinson. Men with pockets to let, such as he, didn’t toss coin about like cracked corn to chickens.
He entered the exclusive establishment, seeking Allen and the others who’d been apprised of Luxmoore’s calamity. Sorrow for his long-time friend gripped him.
Where were they?
He perused the interior, spying the group at a table in a secluded corner. Heads bent near, as if they didn’t want their conversation overheard, only Harcourt, Sethwick, and Allen conferred at the t
able. Two chairs sat empty, Lord Wimpleton evidently having departed already.
Chance closed the distance with long strides, suddenly famished and eager to see his friends. By God, he’d missed them these past years. Smiling, he opened his mouth in greeting.
Allen’s words stopped him cold.
“Prinny’s adamant. Thanks to Kirkpatrick’s meddling, my sister must produce a groom within a fortnight and wed within two months.”
Bloody hell.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Seated on the arbor bench, Ivonne kicked at a small pebble. It pinged against the lattice then rolled beneath some foliage. After the devastating announcement in Father’s study, she’d flown straight here, to her sanctuary.
Damnation.
Pick a suitor to marry. Just like that. As if she selected a new bonnet or a pair of slippers instead of a husband. How could the Regent make such an absurd demand? Interfering fat toad. This wasn’t the Dark Ages, for pity’s sake.
Produce a betrothed and invite me to the wedding or ... or ... off with your head.
Suffocating waves of dread choked Ivonne. She closed her eyes, fearing she would swoon.
Dear God. She must pick a man to wed, or Father would pick for her. This was real, not some horrid nightmare she’d awaken from. What was she to do? She couldn’t marry any of the men interested in her. She just couldn’t.
She stifled a panicked sob. Pressing her fists to her eyes, she refused to let the tears come. Crying, what a wretched waste of time and energy.
Think, Ivonne. There must be another alternative.
Did her parents understand the dismal selection available? Ivonne mentally catalogued her choices: two decrepit old scallywags who smelt of camphor and four fortune-seeking rakehells, each of whom possessed a title and likely carried the clap. And—she shuddered, sickened at the thought—wealthy, fetid Captain Kirkpatrick.
Never him. Not while the sun rises.
Arms folded, she sagged further into the bench’s carved back. Sorry lot, each and every one. The corpulent prince could starve himself before she ever agreed to marry any of them.
Several black ants maneuvered past her slipper carrying a dead bee.
She couldn’t believe her parents would force her to marry to satisfy the Regent’s whim. They’d more mettle than that.
Why acquiesce so easily? It wasn’t like them at all.
Shoulders hunched, she sighed. This wasn’t simply about her. The Sovereign, much like an intractable child, had a malicious streak when opposed. A chill swept her. She hadn’t a fool’s doubt he would destroy her family, if not financially then socially. They’d be ostracized. She fiddled with the lace along her gown’s neckline. Did Prinny have the power to strip Father of his viscountcy?
Egads. What would become of her family then?
A pair of beautiful grayish-blue eyes invaded her musings. If only Falcon were a beau, her decision would be oh-so-easy.
“I ought to propose to Falcon. Wouldn’t that set the prince and his cronies on their ears?” She scuffed her shoes on the leaf-littered ground. A black-capped coal tit chirped nearby, as if in agreement.
Ivonne suddenly straightened. The idea wasn’t that farfetched. In fact, the notion possessed a great deal of merit. Shoving aside her hurt and irritation about Falcon’s behavior last night, she took a mental inventory.
His lineage was impeccable, and his honor equally so. He didn’t possess a fortune or a title, but then, how many second sons did? Her marriage settlement, if managed wisely, would allow them a lifetime of relative ease. Nothing lavish, but modest comfort, which suited her fine, truth to tell.
They were compatible, already good friends, and he’d enjoyed their intimate encounter. At least she thought he had. That meant he found her somewhat appealing, didn’t it?
She bit her lip. Unless last night destroyed any chance of him wanting her.
He’d been brutal—more angry and hurtful than she’d ever known him to be.
Her heart gave a painful twinge. Well then, she’d have to change his mind. She had wanted to marry him for as long as she could remember. Only she hadn’t anticipated being the party to initiate the proposal. It just wasn’t done in the finer circles.
The coal tit hopped onto a branch and cocked its head, staring at her with tiny ebony eyes. Ivonne chuckled. “What’s wrong with a woman proposing to a man, I ask you, my petite friend? Female birds select their mates all the time.”
Did she dare?
Why not?
What did she have to lose?
Nothing.
And she had everything to gain if Falcon should agree.
It wasn’t likely he courted anyone else, as yet. He’d only been in England a few days.
Ivonne would rather risk humiliation by setting her cap for him than settle on one of the other men interested in her, or rather, interested in her marriage portion. If Falcon refused her, it didn’t much matter who she married. She would be miserable, thanks to the prince’s meddling.
With Falcon, she could be happy. Ivonne had never been more certain of anything. And she could make him happy, too, given the chance.
She had bribed Burke, the new under footman, to take a note round to Emmy this morning. Ivonne prayed for a prompt response from her cousin. Originally, she intended to use her cousin’s talents to prove to the pretentious ton that she could attract a great catch if Ivonne chose to. She hadn’t been of a mind to lure suitors before last night’s events. In fact, she’d done her best to repel them.
However, as of a few moments ago, her efforts centered on a single purpose—winning Falcon. She hadn’t any time to lose if, in the next fortnight, she was to convince him to marry her. She wasn’t sure how to go about wooing a man, but Emmy would know.
Her outlook much brighter, Ivonne smiled and glanced around the arbor. Last night she thought her life doomed when Falcon uttered those fateful words in the arbor. The Regent’s dictate might have made it possible for her to have the one thing that mattered most.
Falcon.
Humming a jaunty tune, she strolled the footpath to the house. Head down, she plotted her tactics. She imagined and analyzed every possible situation. Mother must be informed of the need of an immediate shopping excursion, and a new hair style, perfume ... everything.
Yes, this dowdy bird was determined to shed her dull plumage and leg-shackle herself to a divine husband. One god-like former soldier who’d soon forget he had ever looked upon her as an annoying little sister.
Assembling a mental shopping list, Ivonne plowed full on into a firm male body. She stumbled, her lame leg giving way, and lost her balance. Strong arms encircled her and held her tight to a wide navy-clad chest.
Falcon. She recognized his cologne and the breadth of his shoulders. The urge to snuggle closer to him, wrap her arms around his neck and kiss his jaw overwhelmed her. Instead, she breathed in his scent, savoring his unique aroma.
Now was as good a time as any to set the snare.
Tipping her head upward, she offered what she hoped was an enticing smile. “I was just thinking of you.”
Surprise tempered with wariness flitted within his eyes. He stepped back, his hands grasping her upper arms. “Were you now?”
Was he still angry?
“Yes, actually.” She nodded and peeked at him, and then, self-consciousness shrouding her, averted her gaze. “I was remembering last night.”
Ivonne wanted to say our kiss, but she lost her nerve.
Peering at him through half-closed eyes made it deuced difficult to see anything clearly. How women managed to look sultry while doing so, she couldn’t imagine. She wasn’t about to bat her eyelashes like Miss Rossington did. Ivonne feared she’d appear to be having an apoplexy.
Bother. She had much to learn about womanly wiles and little time to acquire the skills necessary to obtain her husband of choice.
Cautious, Falcon eyed her, a hint of amusement creasing the corners of his blue eyes. “Last night?”
>
“Yes ... er ...” At her ineptitude, dual paths of heat flamed across her cheeks.
He crooked a brow, his mouth sliding into one of his lopsided, boyish grins, though he offered her no succor. He wasn’t going to make this easy, was he?
Drawing a deep breath, Ivonne tried again.
“I enjoyed our time together last night. That is ...” She fumbled to a stop.
He bent nearer and whispered, “Which part?”
The seductive cadence of his voice sent tiny delicious shivers skittering across her bare arms. She stared at his lips. She wanted him to kiss her again. Desperately.
A half-smile curving his lips, he regarded her steadily.
An exciting spark heated her womanly places. She’d wager her best bonnet he knew exactly what direction her thoughts had taken.
He focused on her mouth. “Yes, that kissing bit was rather nice, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
His gaze glided over her, taking her measure her from slippers to hair, lingering the merest jot too long on her bosom to be considered polite. “You are lovely.”
Three simple words sent her senses into a riotous dither. Warmth scorched her cheeks again, and her tongue refused to form an appropriate response. Had he forgotten his irritation of last evening, or had he decided to put it aside? It mattered not to her. This was the charming Falcon she remembered. The one she loved.
Tucking her hand into the bend of his elbow, he steered her in the terrace’s direction. Her knees threatened to give out at his touch. What a ninny.
Compose yourself, Ivonne.
His forearm flexed beneath her fingers. “I sought you out to apologize for my behavior last night.”
“There’s no need—”
“Yes, there is.” Falcon guided her to a scrolled metal bench in full view of the house’s French windows. “Please, sit and indulge me for a moment.”
Sinking onto the seat, she cast a surreptitious look at the manor. Dawson probably had her face pressed flat against the upper windowpanes while Mother peeked around the drawing room curtains and watched their every move. The last rays of the sun caressed the structure with their warm glow, making it impossible to discern if anyone did, indeed, spy upon them.