Offer her? What?
A fortune.
How?
India.
More than a few nabobs had purchased a seat in Parliament and risen to the ton’s top tiers after acquiring a fortune via trade with India. Chance possessed no interest in Parliament or government, but he had hoped to become modestly prosperous. Enough that Lord Wimpleton would consider granting him his daughter’s hand in marriage.
Unfortunately, his duties for the East India Company Troops allowed minimal time for business ventures. Aside from a single investment he’d made with a British businessman, Clement Robinson, when Chance first arrived in Madras, no further opportunities to pursue that avenue had arisen.
Not long after meeting Robinson, Chance had been transferred to Calcutta and then moved to four other provinces, each remoter than the last. He’d eventually arrived in Maratha Territory, where he’d been gravely wounded.
Although he’d attempted to reach Robinson several times, after two years without success, Chance gave up. He’d been made a May Game of, and the paltry inheritance Mother left him had been stolen by an unscrupulous scoundrel.
So, Chance had stayed in India. His aspirations of marrying Ivy shriveled into crumbs of crushed hope, and the arid desert winds scattered them into oblivion. If he couldn’t make her his wife, he wouldn’t wed at all.
An unpleasant notion burst into his thoughts.
Bloody hell.
What if Lambert or Mrs. Washburn had yammered about the proposed union between Chance and her? He would have written and told his father he refused the match, except the postal service in the remote provinces wasn’t to be relied upon.
Due to the frequent movement of East India Troops, mail delivery was delayed or, oftentimes, didn’t reach the person intended at all. In fact, Chance hadn’t received the first of Ivy’s correspondences until after he’d lost what meager monies he had possessed. He had nothing to offer her and did what he believed best: ignored her letters, telling himself she would soon find someone to give her heart to.
Except she hasn’t give her heart to anyone in all this time. Why?
Splaying the fingers of his ruined hand, he stared at the empty space where the digits ought to be. Peculiarly, but he felt them at times. They itched, ached, twitched—not in actuality, of course, but phantom sensations of what once was. At times, he even tried to pick up items with the missing appendages.
Losing himself in the magic of music had been his singular passion, other than Ivy. Now, both were lost to him.
Sighing, he set aside the brandy. Brooding served no purpose. After shoving to his feet, he banked the fire before circling the room and blowing out the candles, except one three-branched candelabrum. A final glance at the fireplace assured him the meshed brass guard prevented embers from escaping.
Determined to put the day behind him, he snatched the candelabrum and exited the room. Across the hall, the drawing room door stood open. Lid closed, the grand piano washed in the moon’s silvery glow beckoned him. He stood in the doorway for several long minutes, his emotions vacillating.
A scan of the corridor confirmed Chance alone remained below at this ungodly hour. He advanced into the room, standing unsure for a moment. He placed the candles atop the piano and ran a hand along the carved mahogany. A truly grand instrument.
After shrugging out of his coat, he tossed the cutaway on a needlepoint parlor chair. Before he sat, he unbuttoned his shirtsleeves and rolled them to his elbows. The ivory keys gleamed in the soft light. He rested a tentative hand upon their surface, relishing their familiar cool presence beneath his fingertips.
His useless left hand lay on his thigh. He ran his right fingertips across the keys and, pressing the quiet pedal with his foot, played a familiar melody, one-handed.
“Falcon?” Ivy whispered his name, her voice a blend of curiosity and wonder.
Bride of Falcon: Chapter Eight
Ivonne tossed the bedcovers off and sat up.
What was the time?
After lighting a candle, she examined the bedside clock. Past two.
Releasing a beleaguered sigh, she flopped onto her back. She would be a sleep-deprived disaster in the morning. Maybe she would stay in bed the entire day and wallow in her doldrums.
Miss Rossington’s shocking revelation about Falcon had made sleep impossible. Ivonne hadn’t been capable of returning to the ball either. She feared the moment she laid eyes on him, she would burst into tears. Learning of his shattering injury from Miss Rossington—of all people—was beyond the pale. Feigning a headache, Ivonne had bolted to her bedchamber.
She eyed the clock again.
A trip below stairs was in order. Father possessed a number of yawn-inspiring books. She would select the most boring tome on philosophy the library had to offer—Descartes or Hume would do nicely—and be asleep within fifteen minutes.
Commonsense halted her halfway out the bedchamber door. She wore nothing but her lacy nightgown. Gads. That wouldn’t do. Snatching her robe from the foot of the bed, she paused. What if someone else prowled about below? Not likely at this hour.
It mattered not. She required a tedious book to put her to sleep.
Ivonne shoved her arms into the sleeves. Silver candleholder in hand, she made for the library. Halting piano music lured her into the drawing room.
Falcon sat before the instrument, utter defeat in his hunched shoulders and dejected profile.
Lonely, lost soul.
Her heart wrenched.
“Falcon?”
He stopped playing the instant she uttered his name. Turning his head, he faced her. Vulnerability tinged with embarrassment lingered in his gaze. His beautiful eyes searched hers.
What did he seek?
Pity? Compassion? Sympathy?
Each overwhelmed her, but he didn’t need those emotions at present.
He required hope. Acceptance. Strength. Love.
Falcon’s keen focus sank to her attire then to her bare toes. His lips twitched, and warmth swept her cheeks.
At least she’d thought to throw on her robe. Appearing before a gentleman in her nightwear with her unruly hair billowing about her shoulders was most improper. Truth to tell, at the moment, she didn’t care. The lavender silk nightgown and robe swished around her ankles and calves as she hurried to him. Her cold feet sank into the lush carpet.
Ivonne placed her candlestick next to the other candleholder atop the piano. Ignoring wisdom, she sank onto the bench beside him. The heat of his solid thigh wedged against hers sent a strange shock along her nerves.
Neither of them made an effort to put a suitable distance between them. But then, nothing about being here in the middle of the night clothed in a diaphanous nightgown and robe, unchaperoned to boot, could be considered remotely acceptable.
If caught, she would be ruined.
She gave a mental shrug. That didn’t matter. Everything in her ached to be with Falcon, to seize whatever precious moments destiny afforded her. Ivonne’s need to be with him at this moment shoved aside the sting of his prior disinterest.
Drinking in his features, her focus hovered on the fresh scar marring his handsome face. She longed to kiss the pinkish mark, to somehow convey that she found knowing he’d suffered excruciating to bear.
God above, she’d missed him.
Her eyes misting with tears, she directed her attention to his hands lest she cause him more discomfit. She gasped, barely suppressing the cry surging to her throat.
His poor hand.
Falcon made no attempt to hide it.
Ivonne blinked away burning tears.
Two fingers. Gone. Falcon, a gifted pianist, would make music no more.
Lifting her gaze to his, she forced a facade of composure.
He returned her regard, his gaze guarded and appraising. This was not the carefree, jovial individual she’d known most of her life. He’d suffered, and suffered greatly. What happened in India to change him thus?
“H
ow ...” She cleared her throat, determined to show the same fortitude he did. She deliberately didn’t return her scrutiny to his hand. No doubt, he was self-conscious enough already. “How did you come by your injury?”
Lifting the limb, he allowed her to see the vicious scar disfiguring his arm from hand to elbow.
She reached to touch the puckered flesh, but hesitated. He didn’t pull away. Ever-so-gently, she trailed her fingers along the rough skin.
Dear God, the agony he must have endured.
Fresh tears sprang to her eyes. She swallowed them away. “Does it hurt terribly?”
Falcon shrugged, his broad shoulders bunching beneath the light linen shirt.
“Sometimes more than others.” He flexed his remaining fingers. “My movement improves daily.”
He lost his manhood.
Miss Rossington’s acrimonious words echoed in Ivonne’s mind.
“Do you have ... other wounds?” She practically ground her teeth in vexation.
Curse her wagging tongue. Of course he does, dimwit. Do you expect him to blurt the God-awful truth about his ... his ... maleness?
He turned his arm over so she could see the other side. The wound wrapped around his forearm, a reddish-purple serpent of mutilated flesh. “I’ve a few others, mostly on my ribs and back.”
“What happened?” Ivonne didn’t want him to tell her what trauma he’d undergone. Her heart could barely tolerate seeing these scars. Somehow, she sensed he needed to talk of the experience in order to put the ordeal behind him. To begin the healing in his soul as well as his body.
“My commander ordered us to surround and invade the Pindaris.” Falcon sighed and gave her a sideways look. His handsome mouth twisted into a wry grimace. “I tried to save a woman and her four children trapped inside their burning home. Two Pindari attacked me before I could get the last boy out.”
His eyes darkened to midnight, and grief hardened his features. “The Pindaris’ homes were destroyed. Burned to the ground, every one.”
The muscles in his jaw taut, he closed his eyes for a lengthy moment.
“Not a day passes that I don’t regret requesting a transfer to India. The devastation some British have inflicted on those people, caused by insatiable greed for land and resources ...”
“It sounds absolutely horrid.” Ivonne laid her hand on his arm, the flesh warm and rough beneath her palm. “You couldn’t have known what to expect.”
Why had he asked to go to India in the first place? He’d never told her. Never said how long he’d be gone. Or if he planned on returning. Ever. Every day, she’d prayed for his safety, forcing away her feelings of betrayal and despondency.
A thought struck Ivonne, the absolute certainty of the epiphany penetrating to her soul. The knowledge left her flabbergasted, and the air hitched in her lungs, all the more proof she had hit upon the truth. She caressed his beautiful face with her gaze.
She’d waited for him, secretly hopeful he’d return someday. And that maybe, by some miracle of providence or God’s grace, he’d missed her as much as she’d missed him. That was why she hadn’t entertained the attentions of other beaus.
She’d been waiting for Falcon’s homecoming.
His eyes hooded, a slow, sensual smile curved his mouth.
Did he know? Had he guessed? How could he have?
She dropped her attention to the piano, afraid he’d read the truth in her eyes.
Men as handsome as he didn’t settle for spinsterish misses like her. No, they drew diamonds of the first water to them as naturally and uncontrollably as the moon’s irresistible draw upon the tide. Beauty sought beauty. Each to their own kind.
The injustice of that reality didn’t escape her.
“May I ask you something?” Falcon brushed a lock of hair off her cheek.
Oh, to have the right to turn her face into his hand and press her lips to his palm.
“Of course.” In the faint candlelight, he was even more striking than she’d remembered. “What is it you wish to know?
“In the arbor, Kirkpatrick spoke of your limp. What happened?”
Ivonne gathered her hair and twisted the mass into a thick rope before draping it across her shoulder.
“I broke my leg in two places, the result of a riding accident.” She toyed with the ends of her hair. “One break didn’t heal properly.”
Falcon inclined his head in the direction she’d come from moments before. “I didn’t notice a limp just now.”
“It’s less noticeable on soft surfaces and if my leg is rested.”
Enough talk about her. She wanted to learn what his plans where. More specifically, where would he make his home? Would he take a wife?
The notion, as unsavory as tainted fish, coiled in her stomach.
She absently played a couple of chords with her left hand and then began fingering the bass line of a favorite sonata. “What will you do now?”
Bride of Falcon: Chapter Nine
“Do you have any plans?”
Ivonne asked the question burning on her lips since she’d bumped into Falcon in the garden. Why hadn’t he traveled straight to his family estate, Suttoncliffe Hall, instead of choosing to stay in London? After all, he hadn’t seen his family in over half a decade.
He tapped out the right hand accompaniment to her chord progression.
A nascent smile bent her mouth. They played rather well together.
His playing became stronger as he slid her a sideways glance. “I’m not altogether certain what I’ll do. It depends on several things.”
Falcon stopped playing. His stare intense, he stroked her cheek with the back of his good hand, and his attention sank to her mouth.
She sighed and closed her eyes, angling her face into his palm. His touch never failed to send her senses reeling.
“Such as?” My, she was brazen tonight.
“You.”
Ivonne’s eyes fluttered open. She played a part in what he intended to do?
Dear God, please let him feel something more than friendship toward me.
“Me?” Was that husky voice hers? She couldn’t tear her gaze from his parted mouth.
He traced her lips with his rough thumb.
“Why me?” she managed to whisper, fighting the urge to touch his thumb with her tongue.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he lowered his head, bit by bit, as she angled her chin upward. Cupping her nape with one hand, he wrapped the other in her long tresses, trapping her.
He was so close. She smelled brandy on his breath and the faint remains of his woodsy cologne. Every nerve tingled in anticipation.
“Ivy?”
She trembled at the husky timbre of Falcon’s voice. Heat suffused her, a delicious, heady warmth spreading from her middle outward, hardening her nipples and causing a curious ache between her legs.
“Yes?” She clutched his solid biceps to keep from melting onto the floor. Did the man have a soft spot anywhere?
“I want to kiss you.”
Not more than an inch separated their lips.
“Yes.” She dared not breathe, having waited for this moment for so long. Nothing must disturb the magic.
“You’re sure?” His nostrils flared, and his hot gaze fastened on her lips. Ever the gentleman, Falcon paused and lifted heavy-lidded eyes to hers. He brushed her lower lip with his thumb again. “You want me to continue?”
Woman’s intuition told her he asked for much more than a kiss or two. Ivonne smiled, past caring if he discovered the secret she’d long nurtured in her soul. “I’ve waited a lifetime to kiss you.”
The smile he gave her set her pulse careening. His lips met hers, firm yet gentle at the same time. He shifted his arms, encircling her and lifting her closer.
She entwined her arms around his neck, snuggling against his chest, her aching breasts mashed flat.
He kissed each corner of her mouth then nudged her lips apart with his tongue.
A contented sigh escaped her.<
br />
No other suitors’ fumbling attempts to kiss her had prepared her for Falcon’s seductive assault on her untried senses. Light-headed, swept away on unfamiliar sensation, she parted her lips, granting him access. She was his to do with as he pleased.
He cupped one breast, gently twisting the nipple between his thumb and forefinger as he swept her mouth with his tongue.
She groaned, arching into his hand and meeting his thrusting tongue with her own. Coherent thought flew in the face of her passion. This was all that mattered. Being here with Falcon, finally experiencing what she’d dreamed of for years.
He bent his neck, feathering her throat with scorching kisses before nudging aside the satin of her gown and settling his lips around a swollen nipple.
Head thrown back, Ivonne clung to him, savoring the experience and storing away precious memories. The tender exploration of her breast with his mouth and tongue undid her. When he abandoned her breast, she almost cried out in protest. Then he nuzzled her neck, trailing delicate kisses across her jaw and cheek.
This wonderful, tender man would never be a father.
Joy mingled with sharp sorrow ravaged her emotions. Scalding tears slid from her eyes.
“You’re crying?” Falcon stiffened and leaned away, examining her. A shuttered expression settled on his face. “I apologize. I oughtn’t to have kissed you.”
He shifted, preparing to stand.
“No, Falcon. I wanted you to.”
With a volition of its own, her gaze skimmed his wounds. “It’s just that you ...”
She couldn’t explain her heartache to him. For him. That she grieved because he’d returned from India a partial man. To do so would cause him more pain and humiliation.
He stood, his face an impassive mask.
“I believe I understand perfectly, Miss Wimpleton. Once I satisfied your schoolgirl curiosity about kissing me,” he lifted his arm, mockery dripping from his voice, “my disfigurement repulsed you.”
Ivonne surged to her feet.
How can he think that?
She shook her head, her hair swirling about her shoulders and back. “No, you have it wrong. I’m not disgusted. I would never—”
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 26