“Dear Blusette.” He freed a hand and placed it against her cheek. “You have not lost yourself. You have found yourself.” Gently, he turned her to face the mirror. “If Mr. Morgan could see you now, the buttons would pop from his vest with pride. If you doubt, you have only to look at Mouton. His pride is the same you would see in your father’s eyes, the same pride you see in mine. This is what we wanted for you, dear Blusette. This is what we hoped for you.”
“Oh Monsieur.”
“You have come so far, my dear. You must go a little further.”
“It’s so bloody damned hard!”
He sighed. Then he took out his page and entered a tick. Blu felt like weeping.
But if she had learned anything from Lady Katherine Paget, she had learned that genuine ladies were not weepers. Genuine ladies stiffened their aristocratic chins and carried on. They might blunder forth in appalling error, but they did blunder forth. They did not collapse in a fit of helpless weeping.
She blinked back her despair, raised her head, and gracefully descended the stairs to await the Duke of Dewbury, Cecile’s betrothed.
“Oh Blusette!” Cecile gazed at her with delight as she entered the drawing room. “You look beautiful! You quite eclipse us all!”
“Nonsense. We pale in the light you cast.”
She had never seen Cecile look lovelier. Beneath a pearl-studded net Cecile’s hair shone like captured sunlight. Roses bloomed in her cheeks, as dusky pink as the watered-silk gown sculpting her small bosom and slender waist. The bright color in her eyes reminded Blu of the brilliant jeweled waters sparkling across the horizons of her youth.
“You are both exquisite,” Aunt Tremble announced happily, having spat her plumpers into her palm to make the statement. For the occasion she had chosen mauve silk with a buttercup fringe, and had dressed her wig with mauve-dyed powder. Aside from a slight problem of slippage with her mouseskin eyebrows, a problem tactfully ignored by those present, it was agreed Aunt Tremble was rather exquisite herself. “Well, I did use to be a beauty,” she said, accepting the compliments with a cheerful lack of modesty.
Katherine listened to the exchange in silence. After satisfying herself that Blusette was indeed wearing a corset, slippers, the proper petticoat, and carrying a fan, she touched a hand to her own lightly powdered hair. She had chosen simplicity, selecting a gown of pale gold with little adornment. She did not wish to call attention to herself, as this was Cecile’s day.
What she had failed to fully consider was the stunning impact of Blusette’s wild beauty. Both young women were arrestingly lovely, but Cecile’s beauty was that of a quiet tea garden while Blusette possessed the lush beauty of a tropical forest run riot. Frowning, Katherine realized Blusette would draw the eye first.
“Am I doing something amiss?” Blu asked, uncomfortable beneath Lady Katherine’s steady examination.
“I prefer you to sit over there,” Katherine said, placing Blusette across from Cecile rather than beside her.
After a brief hesitation, Blusette rose and seated herself where she had been directed. She stared at Lady Katherine a moment before looking back to Cecile. “Tell me about your Duke.”
“His Grace,” Lady Katherine corrected.
A becoming blush deepened the rose in Cecile’s cheeks. “I’ve known Edward practically from our swaddling days—”
Nodding politely, Blu listened to an account of blossoming friendship until she noticed Mouton from the corner of her eye. Frowning, she turned to look into the hallway leading to the foyer. From where he stood, only she could see him. His hands moved in rapid warning, but Mr. Apple continually passed in front of him and she could not decipher what he was saying.
“I think Mouton is telling us the Duke—His Grace—has arrived.” A murmur of male voices in the corridor confirmed the guess. Immediately Lady Katherine rose to receive her guest and Blu followed suit. Only now did Blu notice Lady Katherine had placed Cecile’s chair on a line with the door so Cecile would be the first person the Duke of Dewbury saw.
“Edward!” Cecile cried, extending her arms. A radiant smile illuminated her face as the man appearing in the doorway strode directly to her side. Bending, he kissed her cheek and murmured something in her ear which made her blush and laugh before he straightened and turned to the others.
Shock rooted Blu to the floor. A convulsive tremble swept her body, a feverish heat swept into her cheeks.
“You!” she gasped. “The Duke!”
Immediately Lady Katherine materialized at her side. “Your Grace,” she hissed in Blu’s ear.
“Edward,” Cecile said proudly, smiling radiantly, “I would like to present my cousin, Miss Blusette Morgan.”
Eyes as silvery-gray as Lady Katherine’s best plate widened in surprise. Then he was moving toward her, taking her cold hand and raising her fingertips to his lips.
“You lied to me!” Blu shouted, snatching her hand away. He had said his name was Thomas and she had been pathetically grateful that he had confided his true name. She had believed him. What a bloody buffle simkin she had been.
“Blusette!” Lady Katherine’s fingers dug into her arm; her eyes were wide with shock. “Excuse us, Your Grace.” With surprising strength, she turned Blu away and jerked her toward Aunt Tremble. “What on earth is wrong with you? You’re babbling. You did not curtsy! You’ve created a disaster! How could you disgrace us and yourself like this?” Lady Katherine demanded. Her voice was thin and trembled with despair and anger.
“Are you ill, dear?” Aunt Tremble peered into her face. “You look feverish. Shall I send down for some milkwort tea?”
“By refusing to curtsy, you have committed a grave offense. And you raised your voice. You must apologize to His Grace at once!”
Blu did not hear. She stood as rigid as a fence post, staring past them at the Duke. She had dreamed of encountering him again. At those times when Lady Katherine’s criticism had overwhelmed her, when she had doubted her ability to become a lady, when her resolve had wavered or exhaustion and hunger had overwhelmed her—she had thought of the Duke and she had drawn strength from the conviction that one day their paths would again cross.
But not like this. Not in Lady Katherine’s small, elegant drawing room. Not as her sister’s betrothed.
Her sister’s betrothed.
Blu’s head snapped up and her mind raced backward. Bloody hell. She had told Cecile about the night in the hut. Had she revealed Thomas’s name? But it would not matter if she had. The bastard had lied about his name.
“Blusette!” Lady Katherine glanced at the Duke of Dewbury over her shoulder, then gave Blu a shake. “Did you hear me? You must apologize at once!”
“Yes.”
She looked at Cecile’s loving, trusting face, puzzled now and soft with sympathy. The only possible course of action was to salvage what could be salvaged and make the best of fate’s latest jest.
“Yes, of course. At once,” she repeated. She lifted a hand to her throat, then made herself turn to face him. Of a sudden the corset she had thought herself accustomed to was deathly tight. She could not breathe, her cheeks were flushed and feverish. Her heart banged against her ribs.
She met his steady gaze across the room and she knew those intense gray eyes, that sensual naked mouth. She knew the heat of that hard body beneath his velvet coat. Knew the intoxicating scent of his breath and the timbre of his voice when husky with desire. She knew the passion of his kiss and the sweetness of his tongue. God help her.
“I beg forgiveness, Your Grace,” she said faintly, feeling the fire in her cheeks. “My terms are coming on and I am not myself today.”
“Oh my God,” Lady Katherine groaned, groping behind her for a chair. She collapsed next to Cecile and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyelids.
“What did she say?” Aunt Tremble asked, raising the edge of her mauve wig, the better to hear.
“Nothing, Tremble. Nothing.”
Cecile, wonderful kind
Cecile, rolled her chair forward and smiled at Blusette as if she had said and done nothing untoward, then introduced Monsieur to the Duke of Dewbury.
Not a flicker of recognition passed between the two men as Monsieur bowed deeply and His Grace inclined his head. Watching them, Blu decided no one could guess they had once passed a scorching day haggling the price of treasure strewn across Bermuda sands.
So that was how it was to be. Of course it could not be otherwise. She saw that on the instant. Cecile and Lady Katherine must never know that once Blu had donned a gown of emerald silk for Cecile’s betrothed, similar to the one she wore now. That once she had stood naked before him and had watched his beautiful eyes darken and heat with desire. That even now her privates moistened at the memory.
Like Lady Katherine, she sat abruptly, grateful to discover a chair beneath her as her knees collapsed.
“Cecile tells me your home is in Bermuda, Miss Morgan.”
His deep voice shivered down her spine and pulled her from her reverie. Blu looked into his teasing eyes and blinked, not certain how much time had passed or what had been said:
“Aye.” Of a sudden she realized she had been pulling her closed fan through her hand, signaling “I hate you.” She saw Lady Katherine roll hopeless eyes toward the ceiling. “Yes,” she repeated, correcting herself. She dropped her fan in her lap and twisted her fingers together. “Have you visited the islands, Your Grace?”
God’s balls, but he was handsome. She had promised herself no man could be as handsome as she remembered him. But he was. His dark hair, caught at the neck by a silk bow, gleamed with rich red highlights in the afternoon sun falling through the windows. His mouth was as exciting as the first time she saw it. And she found her eyes drawn to his tanned hands, strong and restless on the back of Cecile’s chair. God save her, she hated herself for the thought, but she still wanted to jump on him and taste him and smell him and glory in his nakedness.
“I’ve had the pleasure of visiting Bermuda, yes.” His smoky gray eyes met and held hers. “Will you be visiting London long?” The words were polite, almost mocking.
“I cannot say.” The artificiality of the discourse infuriated her. There was so much she wished to say to him but could speak not a true word.
Cecile touched his hand and Blu dropped her gaze. “Mama will present Blusette to society when the season opens. We predict she will have a dozen suitors after her first ball. Don’t you agree?”
‘Yes,” he said softly, looking at her. “Yes, indeed.”
In that moment, Blu met his intent gaze and understood he remembered too. But what did he remember? Was he recalling how he had rejected her? Was he remembering that she had come to his cabin and begged him—she had begged him—to make love to her before he granted her the crumb of a kiss and sent her away?
The memory of her humiliations returned full force, as fresh as if he had spurned her but minutes ago. Heat pulsed in her cheeks. Her caw-handed corset squeezed the air from her lungs.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Cecile, her voice rising. “Forgive me, but...” She stood abruptly, forgetting her hoops. Her gown billowed forward and the untouched wine glass on the table before her crashed to the floor. There was a moment to see Lady Katherine’s appalled expression and to recognize Cecile’s sympathy. But it was the unsurprised amusement dancing in the Duke’s eyes that she could not bear. “Bloody hell!”
Grabbing up her skirts, she fled.
~ ~ ~
He had behaved like an ass.
Leaning into the upholstered coach seat, Thomas gazed out the window as his coachman turned his matched team into the carriage parade circling through Hyde Park.
The shock of seeing her in Lady Katherine Paget’s drawing room had numbed his wits. An hour later he could not recall if he had behaved with civility. Had he acknowledged the introduction? Had he bowed? What had he said during those first paralyzed moments?
Inclining his head, he acknowledged a bow from the seat of a passing carriage, too distracted to notice who paid him homage.
He had recovered himself enough to address a few remarks to her, he remembered. And he remembered how incredibly beautiful she was. So beautiful the sight of her had left him momentarily speechless. Although he had thought of her nearly every day since they parted, there had been two long seconds when he had failed to recognize her.
Today was the first time he had seen her with her hair dressed and powdered. The first he had seen her properly and exquisitely gowned. Her sun-darkened skin had faded to the color of glowing aged ivory, and someone—most likely Cecile—had taught her to apply rouge so skillfully as to deceive nature. No man who saw her now could ever forget her.
And she was Cecile’s cousin, Lady Paget’s niece.
Closing his eyes, he passed a hand over his face. The fates must be rollicking in the heavens.
Although the city and its environs had swollen to a population of nearly half a million, London was still a small town. Given time, he had believed he would encounter her again. But he had expected to glimpse her on the streets from his carriage window, perhaps to discover her serving ale in a pub. No flight of fancy had imagined the encounter occurring in Grosvenor Square.
Gazing from the carriage window, he raised a small scandal by staring at the Marquess of Lichen’s bow without acknowledging it.
As his passions had never engaged on anything deeper than a physical level, Thomas had no experience with which to define his present peculiar state of mind. Although he recalled Blu Morgan with fondness, and he found himself thinking of her with puzzling frequency, encountering her again raised feelings of annoyance and discomfort as well as pleasure. At the same time his palms moistened and his groin tightened. It was enough to drive a sane man toward Bedlam.
“Dammit to hell!”
Why had she not told him she traveled to Lady Paget? Of a sudden he straightened as memory nudged his thoughts. She had claimed she journeyed to London Town to meet her mother. A genuine lady. A claim he had disbelieved. But if he substituted aunt for mother, and if he stretched the cords of credibility, such could place her in Lady Paget’s drawing room.
But why should she conceal the truth? And where was this mysterious mother? No such person had been presented. The answers came in a staggering blink of insight.
Lady Paget was Blu Morgan’s mother.
“Good Christ!” Removing his handkerchief, he pressed it to his forehead.
Staring at nothing, he reviewed the last hour, testing his suspicion by matching Lady Paget’s high carved cheekbones against Blu’s, matching the mouths and the expressions, the twin widow’s peaks and the similarity of height and carriage. Once the connection had been made, it was impossible to overlook.
But—Lady Katherine and Beau Billy Morgan? Under what possible circumstances could the lady and the pirate have had congress? He could not imagine their lives intersecting, much less a circumstance which could have led to the conception of a child. But he would have wagered his considerable fortune that it had. A smile touched his lips, then vanished as he followed the consequences of his conclusion.
Lady Paget could not send Blu packing as she might have done a niece. This was obvious. She was saddled with her by-blow and the woman must be frantic to the point of near collapse. For truth would destroy her now as it would have done nineteen years ago. This explained the remarkable transformations he had observed in Blu; the modulated, more refined speech, the enormous leap forward in manners, the personal etiquette. Lady Paget worked feverishly to prepare Blu for the season.
He shook his head. More rough edges had been polished than he would have believed possible in so short a period. But Blu Morgan was unique, and she was who she was. Lady Paget might drape her in a cloak of civilization, but underneath she would be the same wild creature he had met on Morgan’s Mound.
At least he admitted this was his private hope, though he could not have defended his position. Something in him resisted the thought of a totally subdu
ed Blu Morgan. The image brought a smile.
But further reflection struck him with the force of a blow and caused his smile to fade.
If he was correct, Blu Morgan was Cecile’s sister. She would become his sister by marriage.
A string of swear words which would have impressed Blu and Billy Morgan burst from his lips. That Blu would become his sister by marriage proved fate’s grandest jest.
It meant he could not hope to escape her. She would form part of his life as well as his thoughts. She would continually be before him, disturbing his dreams and his waking moments.
But she did that now. How long had it been since he had slept easily, without dreaming of her naked golden body and laughing dark eyes? Without remembering her strong legs and tangled hair, without seeing before him the curve of her waist, and breasts like mounded cream?
Throwing open his coach door, he leaned outside and shouted to his coachman.
“Mr. Hogg! Take me to The Swan at once.”
Following these stunning complications he needed strong whisky and the company of men. He needed to get falling-down, pissing-bad drunk, as foxed as a man could get, foxed enough to forget the taste of one woman’s lips and the heat of her body. Foxed enough to cool the fire in his groin. Foxed enough to cease regretting that he had not taken her when he had the opportunity.
12
The ladies of Grosvenor Square retired to their chambers and did not emerge for three days.
The doctors arrived to bleed Cecile and that coincided with her terms, which had never been easy for her, so she remained in bed throughout the duration of her cramps. Lady Paget pleaded a sick headache and sequestered herself in her chamber, but it was fury and fear that sent her pacing the floor as she visualized her impending social ruin. As no one was about, Aunt Tremble decided on her summer purge and dosed herself with vile physic concoctions which necessitated remaining in close proximity to the chamber pots her maid positioned in strategic locations.
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