by Justine Cole
He flicked off her restraining fingers, and mockery flooded his eyes. "I wouldn't plan on it quite yet if I were you."
"Damn you!" Noelle raged. "What do you want from me?"
"You still don't understand, do you? You're mine, and I don't give up what I own unless it's on my terms."
Her face was engraved with bitterness. "These last few days, I thought I had misjudged you. Now I see how stupid I was." She fled from the cottage before he could see her tears.
Quinn stared at the open door. "Maybe I was the one who was stupid," he said softly.
When she returned to the cottage, he was gone. For the rest of that afternoon, Noelle attempted to ride out her anger on Chestnut Lady's sturdy back. With reckless abandon, she thundered across the moors, trying to forget her pain.
It began to rain late in the day, and she hurried back, unwilling to risk being caught again on the moors in a storm. The cottage was warm and dry, but it offered nothing in the way of diversion—no books, no pen and ink. Nothing to distract Noelle from her painful memory of Quinn, bringing her ecstasy such as she had never known, even as he sneered at her.
In the amber glow of a single candle, she lowered herself onto the bed, dropped her head into her arms, and wept.
A loud knocking startled her awake, and stiff with cold, she snapped up in bed, surprised to find sunlight flooding the room. The knocking sounded again. She stumbled to the door, her hand rifling through her mass of uncombed hair.
The coach Quinn had promised was waiting outside, the heads of its team of horses almost invisible behind the steaming clouds of their warm breath in the cold air. On the threshold of the cottage stood a spindly middle-aged woman whose sharp features clearly hallmarked an inquisitive nature.
"Mrs. Copeland?" she queried, taking in Noelle's unusual garb with equanimity.
"Yes."
"Ah, excellent. We have found you, then, with no difficulties." She pushed past Noelle into the cottage and deposited a small valise and several dress boxes on the table. "I'm Edwina Tipton. Your husband, dear Mr. Copeland, made my acquaintance through the rector of our parish and asked me to accompany you back to London."
"Oh?"
"He instructed me to tell you that your horse will be brought on by a groom. What a charming man!" she twittered, oblivious to the fire in Noelle's eyes. "I vow, you are certainly the luckiest of women to have such a husband, blessed not only with a most pleasing countenance but a sympathetic nature."
"I must ask you to enlighten me, Miss Tipton," Noelle said coldly. "How did you learn of my husband's sympathetic nature?"
The woman looked startled. "Why, when he told me of your condition, of course. Dear Mr. Copeland felt it necessary to confide in me. He gave me every assurance that your fits were only temporary and that under no circumstances was I to permit you to dwell on your current instability."
"Fits!" Noelle sputtered with outrage. "Why, that despicable . . ."
"Now, now, Mrs. Copeland. We mustn't upset ourself."
She pulled the lid off one of the boxes on the table. "Here, just look what I've brought you. We have a superb dressmaker, originally from London, of course. Dear Mr. Copeland purchased these clothes to replace those you destroyed during one of your little . . . spells." She did not seem to hear Noelle's muffled growl as she opened one box after another, extracting a hat, shoes, two dresses, even hairpins. "Unfortunate, of course, to have thrown your-entire trousseau on the fire, but, then, the more unpleasant aspect of matrimony is certain to produce some strange behavior in any sensitively reared bride."
Just at that moment, Miss Tipton pulled out undergarments so intimately revealing that even she blanched. She dropped them as if the very act of touching anything so seductive would compromise her.
For the first time in days Noelle smiled and then commented wickedly, "As you can clearly see, my husband has animal appetites."
But Miss Tipton was not so easily daunted. "Nonsense, my dear! Your husband is a wonderful man who cares for you. I'll fix some tea while you dress, and then we'll be off. I know it is your fondest wish to be reunited quickly with dear Mr. Copeland."
"It is my fondest wish, Miss Tipton, that dear Mr. Copeland's soul will rot in hell."
Other than a brief sympathetic glance, Noelle's companion ignored her remark and resumed her bright prattle, a practice she was to continue throughout the long journey back to London. When the outer limits of that city finally came into view, Noelle breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving, for she knew that another day of hearing about "dear Mr. Copeland" would have sent her leaping across the carriage to throttle her traveling companion.
Chapter Twenty-five
Simon was tired when he reached Northridge Square. He had been away for several days, trying to track down a rumor that the Royal Navy was preparing to commission three new frigates. It had been an unsatisfactory trip, aggravated by his worry about Noelle. Quinn's curt note, delivered by messenger the morning that they disappeared almost three weeks ago, had done little to relieve his anxiety. He knew his son too well to have any illusions about how Quinn would react to the deception.
The trip from which he was returning had come at an unfortunate time. There had been too many hours alone in his carriage with only his own thoughts for company, and he did not particularly like what he was finding out about himself.
"Good evening, sir," Tomkins said as he opened the front door for his employer. "I trust you had a pleasant journey."
"Damned unpleasant, as a matter of fact. Has there been any word from my son yet?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Copeland returned two days ago."
"He did, did he? I want to see him right away."
"Certainly, sir. He's in the drawing room."
Simon gave his hat and coat to Tomkins and went to find his son. As the door opened Quinn looked up lazily from the copy of the Evening Mail he was reading.
"Welcome back, Simon."
"Where's Noelle?"
"Not even a 'hello'?"
"Is she upstairs?"
Quinn set down his newspaper. "She's not here."
"Damn it, Quinn! Don't play games with me. If you've hurt her . . ."
"You'll what? Don't forget that she's my wife, Simon. Thanks to you I can do what I want with her."
With a sigh, Simon slumped down into a chair near the window.
"You don't like that, do you?" Quinn taunted. "It's what you wanted all along, but now that you have your victory, it doesn't mean much, does it?" He picked up a glass of brandy from the table next to his chair and swirled it slowly in his glass. When he spoke, his words were low and accusing. "Why is that, Simon? Is it because your feelings about your son's wife aren't fatherly at all? Was it really a deception when you both let me think she was your mistress, or had you been sleeping with her all along?"
"You bastard!" Simon exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. "You should know the answer to that better than anyone. After what you did to her the night you married her, she could barely stand to be in the same room with a man, let alone have one touch her."
"But I'll bet you tried, didn't you?" Quinn said, and even he did not know whether the bitterness in his voice was directed at himself or at his father.
"No, Quinn, I didn't."
The two men were silent for several minutes, and then Quinn spoke. "I'm afraid I did Noelle an injustice. I was too quick to blame this whole scheme on her. I can see that she didn't have to do much persuading to convince you to fall in with her ideas."
"I was the one who did the persuading, not she. It was my plan. Neither Noelle nor Constance wanted to go along with it."
Quinn laughed sardonically. "Constance, I'll believe. But it's useless to try to shield Noelle. I know her calculating nature too well."
"I'm beginning to realize you don't know her at all. In spite of the life she was leading, Noelle was a sensitive young girl when you found her, and she still is."
"Spare me your lectures, Simon, and pour yourself a brandy
. I have something else to discuss with you."
"First tell me if Noelle is all right."
"For God's sake! You're acting as though I've murdered her! She's on her way back from Yorkshire now. She should arrive tomorrow."
Simon poured his brandy and sat down. "Were the two of you able to adjust yourselves to the situation?"
"That's none of your business," Quinn snapped.
Simon avoided meeting his eyes. "What else do you want to talk about? I'm tired. I want to go to bed."
"This won't take long." The trace of a smile touched his lips. "I've changed my mind about returning to Copeland and Peale."
"Are you serious?"
"I am if you accept my terms."
Simon understood his son too well, and now he knew the importance of treading carefully. "I believe I presented a proposal to you several weeks ago. That offer is still open."
"Not good enough," Quinn grinned. "If you want me back, you'll have to do better than that."
"Stop playing cat and mouse with me! Tell me what you want!"
Quinn went to a small desk in the corner of the room where he pulled out a sheaf of papers. "It's all in this contract."
He waited patiently while Simon read it through. When he was done, his lips were tight with anger.
"You're out of your mind! You know I'll never agree to two of these conditions."
"Which ones, Simon? There are a number of them."
"You know very well which ones I'm talking about. Giving you an equal partnership as well as total control of the Cape Crosse yard."
"Have it your way, Simon. I withdraw my proposal. It was everything or nothing." Quinn stood and turned toward the door.
"Sit down," Simon hissed. "At least give me the courtesy of letting me explain myself!"
Quinn looked down at Simon for a moment and then, with a shrug, lowered himself back into his chair.
"It is premature of you to expect an equal partnership with Constance and myself," he insisted, struggling to keep his voice level. "Eventually, of course, I'd planned to make you a full partner, but hardly now."
"The only way you were going to give me an equal partnership was in your will. You're a healthy man, Simon, and I don't intend to sit around waiting for you to die."
He leaned back in his chair and studied his father coolly. "But that's not what really sticks in your craw, is it? It's the idea of relinquishing control at Cape Crosse."
"I built that yard from nothing. Nothing!" Simon's fist slammed down on the table next to him. "Now it's one of the best operations in the world. I've already asked you to manage it. That should be enough."
"Simon, that shipyard can't function with both of us running it." All the mockery was gone from Quinn's voice. "You're a good businessman; I don't pretend to be your equal. But now you have to step aside and let me build our ships my way. In the next twenty years the China trade is going to become more important than anyone dreamed, but the richest prizes will only go to the fastest ships. We have to be ready."
"Even if I wanted to accept your offer, I couldn't. You forget that I have a partner."
Quinn's response was his revenge for the part Simon had played in his conspiracy with Noelle. "Constance has already signed."
Simon's hand shook as he flipped back through the pages of the document to the end. There it was in her fine copperplate — Constance Peale.
Neither man spoke. Finally Simon wearily rubbed his eyes with the tips of his fingers. He was growing tired of the struggle, of trying to shape events to suit himself. Now Quinn was paying him back in the same coin.
Slowly he finished his brandy. Quinn deserved his revenge; he'd earned it. Simon got up from the chair and took the contract to the desk. His hand was firm as he dipped the pen in the inkwell and put his signature on the line next to Constance's. He passed the document on.
"Don't underestimate yourself. It seems you're more of a businessman than either of us thought."
"I was playing with a stacked deck, Simon, and we both know it."
Long after Quinn had left, Simon sat in the drawing room, too drained to move. When he finally took his watch from his pocket, he saw it was nearly ten o'clock. Slowly he pulled himself up and started for his bedroom, his hand trailing wearily behind him on the banister. He was irritated when the door knocker sounded. Who could be calling this late?
Her beauty, as always, caught him unprepared. "Noelle!"
"Hello, Simon."
She was expensively outfitted in brown and cream velvet. She wore a spencer the color of warm mocha. The jacket was cut fashionably short, covering only the bodice of her gown. It was softly edged at the neck and wrists with beige mink. Fetchingly angled over one finely arched brow was a pert velvet toque whose mocha and cream plaid matched the skirt of her traveling dress.
As she stepped smartly past Simon her graceful carriage hid her dismay at seeing him so soon. She had a score to settle with him, but she had hoped to postpone it until she was rested.
The coachman appeared at the door and brought her valise into the foyer. "Will there be anything else, madam?"
"Please see that my companion reaches Ludgate Hill as soon as possible."
With a nod and a respectful bow, he left the house.
"I—we didn't expect you back tonight," Simon said uneasily. "I'm glad you're home, Noelle."
"I'm sure you are." Her voice was chill and distant. "You finally have what you've wanted all along, don't you?"
The footsteps of one of the servants approached them from the back hallway.
"Let's go in the drawing room, where we can talk."
"I'm tired, Simon. I want to go to bed now."
"Please, Noelle." He took her arm and rather forcefully guided her through the double doors into the drawing room. "I must speak with you before you get away from me."
"What can you possibly have to say to me after all that's happened?"
"That I'm sorry."
She pulled off each of her gloves with a crisp snap. "Oh, come now, Simon. You're no longer dealing with an innocent. How can you be sorry when you've planned so long for this moment?" Looking at him contemptuously, she tossed her gloves down onto the settee. "You've made me into the perfect wife, haven't you? Well-dressed, well-educated, possessed of all the social graces. Only the best for your son!"
"Try to understand. I was convinced the two of you would come to care for each other."
"Are you insane?" Something inside Noelle snapped, and the composure she had tried so hard to maintain crumbled. "I'm frightened of him! Can't you understand that? I always have been. He is wild and unpredictable. Your son is a savage!"
Simon winced as if she had slapped him, but her own suffering was so keen, she had no room in her heart for his. "You were going to tell him, weren't you? If he hadn't discovered who I was, you would have told him yourself!"
Simon's silence condemned him.
Her fisted hands shook in front of her with the force of her pain. "You promised you would protect me! Why? Why did you do this to me?"
Unable to bear the sight of her anguish, Simon turned his back on her and walked to the window, but her reflection stared back at him accusingly in the glass. "There's more, Noelle."
"What do you mean?"
As he spoke his finger traced the edge of the window pane that framed her image. "I announced your marriage to the papers last week."
"Oh, Simon, no!"
"It's created a scandal, of course. Everyone believes you've eloped. London's talking of nothing else. To make it worse, the daughter of a prominent banker tried to kill herself when she heard the news. Fortunately she wasn't successful. But she left a note that has made things more complicated than I ever imagined they would be. She accuses Quinn of promising to marry her. You're portrayed as a seductress. It's all very sordid."
Reluctantly Simon turned to face her. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen this way."
Noelle barely heard his words. "I will never forgiv
e you for this."
She fled from the room. Now all she wanted was to be alone. Like a wounded animal, she needed to curl into a tight ball, shut out the rest of the world, and tend to her injuries. She was almost to the stairs when Tomkins's voice stopped her.
"Madam. Please forgive me for not having attended you when you arrived. We did not expect you until tomorrow, and I was preparing to retire."
"It's all right, Tomkins," she managed. "You had no way of knowing I would return early."
"Nevertheless, madam, let me apologize. I would also like to take this opportunity to extend to you the best wishes of the staff and myself on this most auspicious occasion."
Not trusting herself to speak, Noelle merely inclined her head.
"Your valise has already been taken to your new room. I'm sure you'll be relieved to know that Mrs. Debs personally supervised the transfer of all your clothing and personal effects. Mr. Copeland was most specific. He wanted everything ready before your arrival."
Something of what she was feeling must have shown itself on her face because the butler's expression became faintly puzzled.
"Tomkins?"
"Yes, madam."
"Which Mr. Copeland?"
"Why, your husband, of course, madam."
The dragon carved into the mahogany headboard of his bed seemed to laugh at her dismay. They had moved her entire armoire into his spacious room. Her underthings were stacked neatly in a chest in the dressing room; her hairbrushes leaned intimately against his. A crystal perfume vial stood next to a china shaving mug.
"You certainly don't look like a boy any longer, Highness."
Noelle jumped, twisting around at the sound of Quinn's voice. The well-groomed man in the immaculately cut gray suit seemed almost a stranger, so accustomed had she become to seeing him in an open shirt, faded trousers, and riding boots. Only the beard was a reminder of the man who had kept her imprisoned in the cottage in Yorkshire.
Quinn's thoughts were taking much the same course as he surveyed his elegantly coiffed and gowned wife. He took in the way her body filled the dress he had purchased, her breasts swelling beneath the creamy bodice as he had known they would, the tightly nipped waist—a gown well suited to his masculine taste. Still, he knew he was going to miss those breeches. His eyes traveled her body, remembering the hips and shapely backside hidden under the plaid skirt.