Bold as brass was Edwina. Given the man’s malodorous form, she was stoic as an undertaker, as well.
“S’pose it would at that.” He allowed himself to be led away. Before rounding the footpath’s bend, he glanced over his shoulder. His intense gaze lingered on Ivonne’s hiding place.
Could he see her?
She retreated and gave her gown a fierce yank. The fabric tore free. The force rattled the lattice, bathing her in a lush shower of petals and leaves. Mouth closed, she sneezed into her hand. A strangled snort emerged.
“What was that?” Captain Kirkpatrick spun around. His gait unsteady, he pounded toward the arbor.
Edwina and Edmund tore along behind him.
Ivonne stepped backward.
Once. Twice. Three times. And bumped into a figure obscured at the rear of the arbor. She shrieked and lunged to flee the alcove.
Firm arms encircled her.
“Hello, Ivy,” a familiar male voice whispered in her ear.
Chapter Three
Chancey Faulkenhurst inhaled Ivy’s perfume, relishing the unexpected gift of holding her in his arms. He wanted to kiss her, drink in her essence, water his parched soul with her sweetness.
God, he’d missed her.
“Falcon?” Wonder in her voice, she turned and touched his face. “Is it really you?”
He released a low chuckle. “Indeed, Ivy, it is.”
Her nickname slipped from his tongue as if, instead of six long years, he’d seen her yesterday. He’d dubbed her Ivy a score ago—whenever he and Allen came up from school on holiday, she’d clung to them as tenaciously as an ivy vine—and the pet name stuck.
She’d been infuriated and began calling him Falcon instead of Chance as his friends did. He’d rather liked the nickname until her brother started tossing it about. Now, most of Chance’s intimate friends addressed him as Falcon.
He wished he could see her features clearly. The fragmented moonbeams revealed little more than ivory skin, dark plum lips, and shiny eyes.
Ivy’s gaze sank to his cheek. Her glorious eyes widened, and her breath caught. She brushed a hesitant finger across the scar. “What’s this? You’ve been hurt? Why did no one tell me?”
The puckered inch-long streak was the least of his wounds. Nonetheless, her concern warmed his cynical heart. A heart he’d long ago given to her, though she mustn’t know.
He wasn’t free to woo her.
“Shh. It’s naught.” Chance caught her hand with his good one. He pressed her palm to his chest, the only affection he dared show. “I take it you’re hiding from that half-sprung brute?”
He tilted his head in the direction of the approaching footsteps. Ivy probably couldn’t see the movement. “That obnoxious fellow. Has he been both—”
Kirkpatrick plowed into the arbor, sending another cascade of leaves and petals down upon them. Wheezing, he swung his head back and forth like an enraged bull.
“What goes on here?” he bellowed, sounding much like the creature he resembled.
The fair-haired duo plunged into the bower’s other side.
Stifling a snicker, Chance grinned. They reminded him of a pair of fierce pugs ready to take on a bull mastiff. Kirkpatrick didn’t stand a tick’s chance in hot oil against Ivy’s two determined protectors.
The captain drew himself up, his large frame blocking what light managed to penetrate the slats. “Miss Wimpleton, as my future wife, I demand to know. What are you doing in the arms of this man?”
Chest heaving, he flicked his thick fingers contemptuously at Chance.
“Your future wife?” Ivy stiffened and whirled to face the captain. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
She trembled. In outrage or fear? Both, perhaps.
Ivy made no attempt to step away from Chance, and he allowed himself a pleased smile.
Kirkpatrick scowled and narrowed his eyes to infuriated slits when Chance didn’t release her.
He firmed his embrace a fraction, silently challenging the ox.
The other pair stared at his arms encircling her. As one, they raised questioning gazes to his.
Were they prone to nattering? Best not to give them more juicy tidbits to spread about. He reluctantly withdrew his arms, but rested one hand on the small of Ivy’s back, as much to satisfy his need to touch her after all this time as to lend her comfort and support.
She wrapped her arms around her middle and edged a step closer to him. Odd, she’d never been one to retreat from a challenge. She did fear the man. That warranted further investigation.
Chance leveled the captain a furious glare.
Voice raspy, she said, “Captain Kirkpatrick, I have told you three times already. I do not want to marry you. I shall not marry you.”
“Three times? Persistent bloke, isn’t he?” Chance made no attempt to keep the mockery from his voice.
The twins—Edwina and Edmund Linville, if Chance recalled correctly—laughed.
Giggling, Miss Linville managed, “And those were just the formal proposals. There were at least another half dozen written ones.”
“Along with some ... ah ... creative poetry scribbled on the reverse of calling cards jammed into bouquets.” Edmund offered those morsels, seemingly unaffected by the hostile glower Kirkpatrick leveled at him. In fact, brazen as a doxy on a Saturday night, the plucky fellow winked at the captain. “Delivered every Monday and Thursday, I believe.”
Chance took the captain’s measure. “You don’t say. Perhaps persistent is the wrong word. I’d suggest obsessed might be more apt.”
Ivy nodded, the silky hairs on her crown, tickling his chin.
A good portion of the russet strands tumbled about her shoulders. How had her hair come to be in such disarray? Had that sot dared to touch her? Through a haze of ire, Chance tamped down his desire to rearrange the seaman’s beefy features. Instead, he concentrated on Ivy’s rounded behind pressing into his groin. All sorts of distracting images soared forth as his manhood twitched in approval.
“What say you, Ivy? Have the captain’s attentions become bothersome?” Chance pressed her spine gently.
Her focus on Kirkpatrick, she tilted her head. “Yes, Mr. Faulkenhurst, though I’ve asked him to leave off several times.”
She smelled divine, a mixture of spring rain and iris. Chance enjoyed a pleasant view of the valley between the creamy bosoms swelling above her gown’s neckline. She made no attempt to put a respectable distance between them.
Then again, she regarded him as a harmless older brother. One of the reasons, at three and twenty, he’d petitioned for a transfer to India to support the East India troops. A harmless older brother didn’t harbor the sensual fantasies she elicited in him or want to step closer to enjoy her womanly curves more fully.
Though a commissioned lieutenant in His Majesty’s Regiments, as a second son of an earl, he had nothing to offer a viscount’s daughter except a hundred or so sheep and a long-neglected estate in Cheshire his mother bequeathed him. Did Foxbrooke Cottage even remain standing? When he’d last heard, the rundown house wasn’t fit for habitants other than vermin and insects.
He couldn’t claim an officer’s income anymore either. Naturally, he’d sell his commission, but at less than twelve hundred pounds, the monies wouldn’t begin to restore Foxbrooke, let alone support Ivy in the manner she was accustomed to.
He could seek a position as a steward or a secretary with one of his titled friends. However, with a hand short two fingers, writing presented a challenge. Would offers of employment be prompted by pity rather than genuine need? Heaven forbid. He continued to practice writing with his right hand but made slower progress than he wished. And truth to tell, even if gainfully employed, he’d not be worthy of Ivy.
The damnable agreement Father contrived with his crony, Lord Lambert, while Chance fought in India, presented a rather troublesome complication too. For a hefty marriage settlement, his sire pledged Chance would marry Lambert’s widowed daughter, Cornelia Wa
shburn, when he returned to England.
Eight years his senior, if Chance’s memory served correctly, she possessed a termagant’s temperament and had one eye that was wont to look off sideways.
He adjusted his injured arm, and white pain vibrated to his shoulder. The wound hadn’t completely healed. The optimistic surgeon who’d repaired the limb assured Chance he’d get most of the use of his arm back, though the same couldn’t be guaranteed of his hand.
Astute fellow. One could assume the man of medicine had never known a human to regrow fingers.
The twins advanced further into the arbor, their hostile gazes raking the fuming captain.
Linville brushed a strand of hair off his forehead and met Chance’s gaze. “Allen told the captain to desist in his addresses, yet he continues to pursue Ivonne.”
“I’ve given him no cause whatsoever to encourage his attentions.” Ivy glanced at Chance, desperation in her eyes. “I’ve taken to avoiding him at every turn.”
She held her head high, although he detected the tremor in her voice. Kirkpatrick terrified her. Chance reached for his sword, but is hand met air. The blade no longer hung by his side. He’d like nothing better than to run the captain—in his cups or not—through for tormenting Ivy.
“Why don’t you leave off? Miss Wimpleton has made it clear she doesn’t return your regard.” Chance turned his blandest stare on the seaman.
Kirkpatrick grunted and waved his hand. “It’s not like she has a multitude of other offers. I’m the only man of means who’s shown any interest in her this season.”
Bloody bastard.
Ivy drew in a swift breath and stiffened. “My offers are none of your concern.”
“Have you set your sights on one of those pretty pocket-to-let milksops whose only interest in you is your sizable settlement?” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and blundered on. “Once wed, they’ll retire you to a countryside hovel and not look upon you again.”
She snorted. “Don’t pretend you’re not as interested in my portion, Captain. Though we both know it’s Garnkirk House you covet.”
“Garnkirk House?” Chance wasn’t familiar with the place.
She gave a sharp nod. “An estate—mine upon my marriage—near the Scottish border.”
Kirkpatrick puffed out his barrel chest. “I, at least, am prepared to overlook your limp—”
Limp? What limp?
“—and unremarkable appearance to keep you at my side.” A self-satisfied smile bent the captain’s mouth. He ogled Ivy’s breasts, clearly finding her far more appealing than he admitted.
Damn him to hell.
Fury gripped Chance. He didn’t care if excess drink had emboldened Kirkpatrick, the churl deserved a sound throttling.
Was the lackwit blind? Ivy was exquisite. At least the woman-child Chance had left behind had been.
The light in the arbor only hinted at her current loveliness, though he had no doubt she’d developed into a rare beauty. Nothing ostentatious like a diamond or ruby, but rather a pearl or opal, stunning in its innocent simplicity. The delightful creature he’d held in his arms moments ago had been perfectly rounded in the right places too. The recollection sparked a predictable and uncomfortable response from his manhood.
Chance itched to plant Kirkpatrick a facer. Breaking the knuckles of his remaining decent hand would be worth it. Only years of soldiering lent him the self-control he required to warn the captain with words rather than pummel the bounder with fists.
Sometimes, being a gentleman was a blasted bore.
“You step beyond the mark, Captain. Way beyond.” Chance curved his fingers around Ivy’s slender waist.
She shivered and scooted nearer to him.
Muted voices sounded outside. He cocked his head. Allen and his chums? Chance smiled to himself. Yes. This ought to get very interesting.
He scratched his nose. “Pray tell me, Kirkpatrick, why, in all that’s holy, would Miss Wimpleton marry you after you’ve publically insulted her?”
Let the seadog rant on. He wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the upper salons or haut ton gatherings once Harcourt and the others gave the captain the cut direct.
Kirkpatrick pointed a stubby finger at her. “She ought to be grateful I’d consider wedding a chit almost on the shelf.”
Ivy and Miss Linville gasped in mutual indignation.
“You misbegotten cur!” Hands fisted, Linville made to confront the captain.
Chance’s hand to the young buck’s shoulder stayed him. “Don’t. The sot’s burying himself, good and deep. He’s neck high in horse manure. A couple more words and the dolt will be choking on the filth.”
Captain Kirkpatrick narrowed his eyes, scowling at Ivy.
“Don’t tell me you intend to accept decrepit Lord Walsingham or doddering Lord Craythorn? Both are sixty if they’re a day.” He lifted his nose and raked her from toe to top, his censure obvious. “You told me you adored children. Neither of those codgers could get a child on you a decade ago, let alone now.”
More gasps followed his crass statement.
God rot the bloody bugger.
Smirking, Kirkpatrick patted his chest. “I assure you, I’d have you expecting in a blink.”
Ivy made an inarticulate sound and swayed.
Chance steadied her, clenching his jaw against the oaths surging to his tongue. He ached to call the oaf out. Wisdom warned him that to do so meant certain death. His fighting arm was useless. Frustration and impotent rage seized him. He couldn’t protect Ivy the way she deserved.
Through half-closed eyes, he observed her.
Profile to Chance, she stared at Kirkpatrick. An almost undiscernible curling of her upper lip hinted at the repugnance she attempted to conceal. Her rapidly rising and falling breasts revealed her agitation.
Did she think Chance a coward for not confronting the captain? The idea stung sharper than his wounded arm. By God, he’d die to protect her, but he wasn’t a dullard. Cunning and shrewdness must be his weapons of choice.
Kirkpatrick, wrapped in his own self-importance, seemed oblivious to her contempt. “Why, I have five strapping boys already.”
“Ill-mannered bratlings you mean.” Miss Linville jutted her chin skyward and glared at him. “Horrid little fat beasts.”
“Indeed they are.” By way of explanation, Edmund added, “We came upon them in Green Park last week. The older two chased a terrified dog, the middle two threw pebbles at passersby, and the toddler had dropped his drawers in full view of everyone to relieve himself on a tree.”
Chance choked on a guffaw.
God’s toenails.
Ivy must be spared such horror.
She stalked to Captain Kirkpatrick and slanted her head to meet his gaze square on.
There was the feisty girl Chance remembered.
“You pretentious buffoon. You think I’m so desperate to avoid spinsterhood, I’d accept the likes of you?” Her voice quivered and raised an octave with her last few clipped words.
Spinsterhood?
Ivy couldn’t be more than, what? One or two and twenty? Hardly old maid material.
Three tall forms shadowed the trellis outside. Ah, the reinforcements had arrived.
Chance stepped beside Ivy. “If you have a lick of sense, Kirkpatrick, you’ll leave now.”
The captain swaggered further into the bower. “Or what? You’ll make me? Ivonne is all but betrothed to me. Her father has as much as promised me her hand.”
“No. He has not.” Ivy clasped a hand across her mouth, backing away and shaking her head. “He wouldn’t.”
“That’s a brazen lie!”
“How dare you address her by her first name?”
The Linville twins’ voices rang out in unison.
Chance allowed a slow grin to tilt his lips. “Impossible.”
Ivy peered at him, curiosity in her gaze.
He took her quaking hand in his, careful to keep his disfigured fingers tucked inside his
coat. “You see, Kirkpatrick, Ivy is already promised to ... another.”
Chapter Four
Promised?
Ivonne angled her head. She’d misheard. Her nerves and this hullabaloo with Captain Kirkpatrick had her hearing ridiculous things.
Silly goosecap.
Falcon hadn’t announced she was pledged to another. Had he?
She tried to read his expression in the muted light. What was he about? Trying to protect her? He almost sounded jealous.
The notion sent a delicious spark to her middle, and the warmth spread to other unmentionable parts in a most curious fashion. She shifted to alleviate the peculiar sensation.
He didn’t know that Captain Kirkpatrick wouldn’t rest until he unearthed her phantom intended. The widower wanted Garnkirk House. The one hundred eighty acre estate boasted prime hunting and fishing lands. The captain’s obsession with his hobbies bordered on unhealthy.
Falcon long absence from the ton had kept him ignorant of Kirkpatrick’s reputation. The wealthy ship captain’s questionable business association with several powerful peers permitted him the luxury of hovering on le beau monde’s outer fringes.
The widower would place a few prying questions in the right ears and the truth would out. Then where would she be? She expelled a controlled breath. As long as the captain turned his interest elsewhere, she didn’t care what on dit the chinwags bandied about. She was made of sterner stuff than that.
Or so she told herself.
A disturbance outside the arbor reined in her musings. The Earl of Luxmoore, the Duke of Harcourt, and Allen crowded into the already overfull bower. A herring packed tin allowed more room for movement. She wrinkled her nose. And possibly smelled better too.
She sneezed then sneezed again.
“Bless you.” Edwina produced a lacy scrap of cloth. “Have you need of a handkerchief?”
“Yes, thank you.” Ivonne accepted the linen and pressed it to her nose. The cloth offered some relief from Captain Kirkpatrick’s reeking person.
The cozy nook meant for two or three, now teemed with eight bodies, six of whom were muscular males, and one of those rivaled a gorilla in size, smell, and mannerisms.
Bride of Falcon Page 2