by Julia Keaton
He turned her once more, surveyed her critically and nodded. “The hair will have to do. Arranging that is beyond me.”
His gaze met hers. Seeing the quizzical look in her eyes, he smiled faintly, flicking an affectionate finger over her cheek. “You will have to grow accustomed, you know.”
“Will I?”
“You will.” He pulled her close, tucking her head against his shoulder. “In my heart and mind, you are my wife.”
Warmth suffused Bronte, but she bit her lip as a touch of uneasiness moved over her as well. “And Darcy?” she asked tentatively. To her surprise and relief, he chuckled.
“In his, too.”
“You are … comfortable with that?”
His arms tightened. “Will it surprise you if I say yes?”
“I think it would.”
He sighed. “I didn’t think I would be. I do love you, you see, and I am as jealous and possessive as any other man. Strangely enough, Darcy and I are more like two halves of a whole, though. I don’t know how, or why, or even when that came about … probably when we were still youngsters, but that is the way of it. And after a bit of adjustment we came to the realization that we would far prefer to share you than not to have you at all.”
Kissing her briefly, he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and escorted her to topside once more. Darcy joined them as they strolled around the deck, tucking her other hand in the crook of his arm. After a couple of circuits of the ship, they stopped by the railing and stared out at the vast sea that surrounded them.
“Where are we going?” Bronte asked, suddenly realizing that she hadn’t even asked. She’d assumed she was going home, but then she had thought to begin with that she’d booked passage home.
“Virginia first. I sent an agent to purchase land, but I’ve no notion until I speak with him what he’s come up with. I’ve a mind to try my hand as a planter and give over the running of the shipping business to Darcy. He’s far better at it than I am. Hopefully he’s found something near a promising port town.
“I suppose we could stay at your place until the house is built.”
Bronte frowned thoughtfully and finally smiled wryly. “I’m not so sure that would be a very good idea. Americans are a lot different than Englishmen, but they are as easily scandalized … perhaps even more so.”
Darcy shrugged. “One of us could pose as your brother and the other your husband and there would be no reason for anyone to think anything of it.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Nick said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I shall be the husband. You can be the brother.”
“Now wait just a damned minute,” Darcy snapped angrily. “Why do I have to be the brother?”
“Because you have a touch of red in your hair. I do not.”
“What’s that got to do with it? I don’t look like her brother!”
“You’re saying I do?”
Bronte glanced from one to the other and started laughing. “Neither of you look as if you could be my brother, and what’s more, I’ve been living there for years. They know I don’t have a brother.”
“That’s that, then. We’ll have to find rooms until the house is done … in another town. It would be best anyway if we found something close to the plantation.”
“Yes,” Darcy said, “but one of us is still going to have to pose as a relative or things could get very uncomfortable. It’s not that I care that much about socializing, mind you, but I won’t have the locals snickering about my wife.”
“Our wife,” Nick reminded him, all traces of amusement gone.
“That’s what I meant,” Darcy retorted.
“That’s not what you said.”
Bronte rolled her eyes. “I’m not your wife or yours,” she said tartly. “I told you I didn’t want to get married again. I’ll not tie either of you to me, for I’d as soon not have you growing dissatisfied when we have no children.”
Darcy and Nick eyed her speculatively for several moments. “We’ll cross that bridge when, and if, we come to it,” Nick said.
“We won’t. We’ll cross it now.”
“It’s settled then.”
“It is?” Bronte said blankly, wondering if she’d missed something.
“Yes. I’ll have the captain perform the ceremony, grease his fist and threaten his life if he ‘remembers’ the names when he’s in his cups,” Nick said.
“Good idea,” Darcy agreed. “Better yet, I’ll put him on one of the long hauls and make sure he doesn’t hit port for a while.”
“Now?”
Darcy shrugged. “There’s no time like the present.”
Nick nodded. “I’ll meet the two of you in the cabin.” His eyes narrowed speculatively. “The emerald, I think. I like the green on her.”
“What are you talking about?” Bronte demanded.
“Never mind,” Darcy said soothingly, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm and leading her toward the gangway. “I’ll explain when we get to the cabin.”
Bronte tugged at her hand. “Darcy!”
He gave her a warning look. “You don’t want me to carry you down, do you?”
She subsided. “You wouldn’t!” she said doubtfully.
“Ah, but I would, darlin’ and likely spank that luscious backside of yours for putting me to the effort.”
She was still arguing with Darcy when Nick tapped at the door a few minutes later and entered. His eyes narrowed when he saw that Bronte was clutching the front of her gown, resisting Darcy’s efforts to remove it. Striding toward her, he caught her hands in his. “What’s this all about?”
“I don’t want to get married. It wouldn’t be legal anyway, would it?”
“If you think so, then why argue?”
“Because....” She looked at Nick helplessly. “It wouldn’t be right to tie you to me, Nick. Eventually, you will want children. You’ll come to resent me. I would far rather we simply lived together and then, if you find someone else you would be free to wed.”
He caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. “We have compromised for you, Bronte. You will do this for us,” he said sternly.
Put that way, it seemed completely unreasonable of her to object. After a moment, she nodded. “If you’re certain it’s what you want?”
“We’re sure.”
Bronte stood quietly while they helped her to dress in the emerald gown Nick had chosen for her, too terrified to speak, or even to think. Partly, it was because she had a very bad feeling that this would be breaking the laws of pretty much every country in the world. Even those that allowed for multiple partners only allowed for more than one wife, not more than one husband.
Primarily, however, her fear was rooted in her first marriage. She knew it wasn’t the same. She trusted Nick and Darcy, loved them, knew that they would take care of her as they always had. In the back of her mind, however, the horror of her first marriage still held sway.
The captain looked the three of them over as if he was staring at a group of lunatics when he was allowed inside, or, more accurately, as if he strongly suspected the three of them were too inebriated to realize what they’d demanded of him. Shrugging, he performed the ceremony … awkwardly, since he wasn’t accustomed to addressing two grooms. When he’d finished by announcing his authority to legally perform marriages, he concluded with the customary, “You may kiss the bride … uh … both of you.”
The three of them butted heads and drew back, rubbing their foreheads. Sighing irritably, Nick produced a coin. “Heads or tails?”
“Heads,” Darcy said promptly, watching the proceedings suspiciously.
Nick flipped the coin, showed Darcy the results and pulled Bronte into his arms for a lingering kiss, handing Darcy the coin.
“Damn it to hell, Nick! This is that trick coin!”
Nick began to chuckle and finally pulled away from Bronte, grinning at Darcy unrepentantly. “You knew I still had it. You should have called tails.”
The End
An excerpt from Succumb to Me by Julia Keaton, now available:
Winter Stevens gasped as Vincent Giovanni unveiled his creation to her at long last, whipping the cover cloth to the side with a flourish that threw a fine mist of dust into the air. The air born particles drifted through the beam of sunlight that poured through the open window, shining on the painting with strange illumination.
Looking upon his creation, Winter felt a bolt of shock akin to lightening pass through her body. As if she’d suddenly been transformed into petrified wood, Winter found she could not move, could not blink, could not even breathe.
It was a monstrosity.
“I call it The Ice Princess,” Mr. Giovanni said proudly, apparently pleased with Winter’s reaction. He seemed to be laboring under the assumption that she was stunned speechless with admiration.
Thaw set in. For a moment, Winter felt herself hovering between a faint and violent illness. Her stomach clenched in a painful knot as she continued to gape wide-eyed at the painting, backing slowly away in disbelief until she bumped into a chair and collapsed into it with weakened knees that had turned to jelly. She wanted to cover her eyes, but she was powerless to look away.
Blissfully unaware of her initial, and subsequent, reaction, Giovanni remained engrossed for some moments in studying his latest masterpiece.
Winter took a deep breath, attempting calm, fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She would not be ruled by her emotions, least of all by stark terror.
She swallowed, trying to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. She realized after a moment that her tongue felt swollen and uncooperative for the simple reason that her mouth had gone dry as dust. She swallowed convulsively, several times, and managed to gather a little moisture into her mouth.
“Mr. Giovanni, why have you ... what happened to my ... why has my portrait been composed as a nude?” she managed faintly.
His accent was heavy, but his English was flawless. She knew she couldn’t have misunderstood his intentions when he’d sought her out as a model. She’d been so thrilled, so defiant of her mother’s stern admonition that she could not, under any circumstances, pose for the brilliant artist. He had never mentioned anything of this sort, nor could she reconcile the genteel old man with any deviousness of character. Why then, had he done this?
She had not—definitely NOT posed for him without her clothes! And yet, the painting depicted a woman completely without shame, lounging in a pile of dark, supple furs, clothed only in her hair. Crystalline walls protected her from the harsh, beautiful winter raging outside. There was such exquisite detail in her face and form—no one would believe that she’d been wearing her best walking dress as she’d posed for him. No one would believe that this ... this monstrosity was the result of nothing more than the man’s vivid imagination ... no one would doubt that she had posed nude for him.
He nodded, so engrossed in his admiration of his handiwork it was obvious he had not heard one word out of three. “Nude, yes! Is it not perfection? Is it not exquisite? At first I was doubtful, but I do not regret that I allowed myself to be persuaded ... I believe you are one of my best subjects. In truth, your unusual coloring intrigued me from the beginning. I may like to paint you again someday.” He thought about it a moment. “Though in a different setting, of course.”
Winter nearly strangled on her incredulity. Was the man mad? She would never do something like this again if she managed to recover. Why would he think she would ever sit for him again?
Scandal. The foul word clung to her thoughts like a stench. It was the only thing her mind could wholly grasp. She deeply regretted going against her mother’s wishes now, for deceiving her mother into believing these past weeks that she’d been going to the park with her friend, Sarah. In truth, she had no friend named Sarah.
When she thought back on the lengths she had gone to, only to find ruination!
Her mother must never find out. She’d had far too much heartache in her lifetime to weather her daughter’s deceit and ruination. It wouldn’t matter that she was an innocent still. Never mind that Vincent Giovanni was at least thirty years her senior, no one would believe they hadn’t been lovers after viewing his painting of her. It reeked of intimacy.
Her stomach heaved. She clamped a hand to her lips, placing her other hand protectively over her stomach, soothing the ulcer she could already imagine forming.
Her thoughts were chaotic in her desperation to find a way out of the mess she’d gotten herself in to. Abruptly, a solution presented itself, uplifting her spirits. All was not lost! It wasn’t too late. She could destroy the portrait before anyone else saw it. Once she pried it away from him, she would burn it in private with none the wiser.
“Thank you, Mr. Giovanni. It is beautiful. Now, for payment—”
“It has already been taken care of, Miss Stevens.” He faced her, smiling.
Hope soared, but she tamped it down to reality. He’d worked long on this project. She couldn’t allow him to simply give it to her, even if it was what she wanted. “No, I cannot allow you to give me such a gift.”
Years of pride dictated she not accept charity, nor could she allow him to go unpaid even if she’d been inclined to accept charity. It was unfortunate she had not had the foresight to stow away more of her meager allowance. If she hadn’t had to pay for conveyance to his studio.... That was over and done now and could not be helped. She had saved what she could. It would have to be enough.
He chuckled then and covered the painting once more.
She was grateful. It was unnerving to see herself so depicted. His amusement, however, confused her. Questions burned her tongue for want of asking, but, from his attitude, she felt he was building to some revelation. She could feel trouble brewing like a storm about to erupt.
Finally, he settled himself down behind his desk, devoting his full attention to her.
“The Ice Princess was a commissioned piece of work. You were requested specifically as the model. I had no choice but to seek you out and invite you to sit for me. It was fortunate for us both that you agreed without requiring too much persuasion.”
Dear god! Winter shook her head, trying to make sense of his speech. Someone had paid the man to destroy her? Someone had specifically requested her, had plotted to ruin her by commissioning a nude of her? She’d never suspected something so vile ... not even in her nightmares.
An ache began pounding behind her eyes. She was ruined. She had ruined her family—her mother’s good name. It was all they’d had left and now they would not even have that much because of her willful disregard for her mother’s warnings. How could she have been such a vain fool?
With a strength of will she didn’t know she possessed, she managed to calm the chaos of her mind and form the question burning her senses away. “Who commissioned this ... this...?” Atrocity. If someone had deliberately set out to ruin them, she had to know who it was.
And why. She could think of no reason for hatching such a plot. What could they possibly hope to gain by defiling her family name and destroying her reputation?
Blackmail?
She shook the thought off. That was absurd. It was common knowledge that they had no money to pay.
“I am afraid I can’t divulge that information.” He steepled his hands, his face gone serious as he studied her, eyes strangely saddened.
Winter felt that he wanted to tell her the truth, but something, or someone, prevented it. What person could have such a hold? Only one with power and riches—enough to crush anyone in their path. Enough to crush her. She prayed that she was wrong in her fears.
“Mr. Giovanni....” She paused, working up the courage to beg. “Whoever it is, you must not allow him to take it, Mr. Giovanni. I’ll be ruined, my family shamed,” she pleaded, knowing it was useless.
Mr. Giovanni could not have failed to realize what the portrait meant ... ultimate disgrace. For whatever reason, he was under the conspirator’s power and coul
d not help her now even if he had wanted to. His next words confirmed her worst fears.
“I have no choice. But, you need not worry. He assured me it was for a private collection. He gave me his word of honor, or I would not have agreed under any circumstances. Unfortunately in this day and time, I must accept work when it is offered me.”
“His word?” Winter echoed faintly, wondering a little wildly if Mr. Giovanni was feeble minded.
What good was the word of honor of a blackmailer? A defiler of a young woman’s reputation? The urge to laugh was almost insurmountable, and she knew hysteria threatened.
She was not such a beauty as to make someone desire a portrait of her, in innocence. This person meant to plot her ruin. And had paid handsomely for it. Winter and her mother had only a modest income. She knew without being told Giovanni had been well compensated, and she couldn’t blame him for succumbing to the needs of his purse. Would that she could earn some sort of income for her own family.... She would have never been placed in this predicament, never been so powerless.