by Corwin, Amy
She glanced up to find him staring at her mouth. She caught her upper lip between her teeth, hating her overbite. Why couldn’t she be pretty like Helen? He was probably staring at her in disgust, thinking how dreadful she looked and how mean-spirited she was.
She tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket and tried to push him away. His grip on her tightened.
“No. I didn't fight Napoleon himself. I don’t know who started that ridiculous rumor.” He paused before asking abruptly. “And who is Mr. Lyndel?”
“Mr. Lyndel? Oh, please don’t tease me. You know who he is. Aren’t you here to collect Uncle John’s debt to him?”
“No, I’m not! Whatever gave you that ludicrous idea?”
“He said as much—right before he proposed.”
His gaze grew more intense. “Proposed? Good God, tell me you didn’t accept him?”
“Not yet, although it would be the sensible thing to do.” Her throat closed ominously and her lips quivered. She didn’t know what to do. They didn’t have the money, and Mr. Lyndel had threatened her uncle. Oh, why did Andrew have to go and die just when she needed him and his punishing right fist the most?
“Thank God,” he murmured. “Don’t cry...”
Then as silence settled around them, he cradled her head in one large hand and slanted his mouth over hers. She inhaled sharply, drawing in his warmth as their breath mingled before she stopped breathing altogether when his firm lips caressed her mouth.
It was shocking and exhilarating. The garden slipped sideways and slid away until there was nothing except in the world but his arms. Her legs nearly folded beneath her as the heat from his chest burned through her dress. Every bone in her body melted in that liquid warmth.
Then, mortified at her reaction, she tried to push him away. But even as her sense of propriety returned, his grip strengthened.
Her will to push him away faded, and an odd elation filled her. Her hand slipped over the hard muscles of his chest. The wool of his jacket rubbed against her fingertips as her hands made their way up his neck and into the dark curls at the nape. His lips pressed against her mouth until she opened it to feel the tip of his tongue tickle her own.
He backed away, but held her arms tightly as if afraid she would run away. “I’m sorry.”
Embarrassed by the strong surge of unfamiliar emotions, she tried to shake off his hands. “Please, release me.”
His hands momentarily tightened. He leaned toward her again.
She pushed harder. “Since you admire my common sense, you’ll understand when I tell you we should join the others.” Her voice shook, but she felt it imperative they return to the room beyond, comfortingly lit with soft candles.
Out here, despite his apparently honorable reputation, she was certain she stood in the company of a terrible rake.
Only a rake would sweep a woman into his arms and kiss her with such expertise.
“Wait—at least tell me you aren’t seriously considering Lyndel’s offer.” The words whispered past her cheek, making her long to turn her head just enough to touch the corner of his mouth with her own.
She cleared her throat. “Why? What difference could it possibly make? You’re fit enough to leave and will be on your way as soon as Mr. Lyndel gets what he wants, won’t you?”
“I—”
“Well?” A sense of unease shivered through her.
He straightened and she could almost feel him considering his answer.
If he was going to tell her the truth, wouldn’t he reply more readily? Why the hesitation unless he had other motives for staying at The Orchards? He hadn’t told them he was a Major, and could have hundreds of other secrets.
Despite her wish to be fair and not so suspicious, her previous doubts returned.
However at least one answer stepped out of the shadows. He must have tried to distract her from his true purpose by kissing her.
Sadly, it wouldn’t work.
Well, it worked for a moment, but only a moment. And his depressing estimation of her had been wretchedly correct. She did have common sense. Enough to know he wasn’t being honest and was using her obvious weakness for him as a diversion.
The humiliation of her overwhelming reaction to him raised a blush to her cheeks. But she caught her skirts in her fists and straightened her spine.
“I don’t want you to marry Lyndel,” he replied at last.
She smiled and broke free, slipping around him. Pausing at the edge of the terrace, she glanced over her shoulder, wishing that just the mere sight of him didn’t make her breathless.
“Then I shall have to consider the squire’s proposal, instead,” she remarked before going back inside.
Chapter Sixteen
Turn up Trumps
The next day, Oriana buttoned up a smock to cover her dress and tucked her curls under a large mob cap. The faded green muslin dress was over four years old, but she didn’t want to ruin it sorting through the contents of her great-grandmother’s bedroom.
The room had never been properly cleaned since that august lady died in bed. Oriana decided now was as good a time as any. She felt restless and confused after Chilton’s kiss and the unprecedented number of marriage proposals she had received the day before.
Not that she was seriously considering any of them. However, if she didn’t do something, she would simply worry. Her mind returned again and again to Chilton’s surprisingly proficient embrace. While it should have confirmed her doubts about him—he was obviously not only an irresponsible gamester but a rake as well—she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Or the feel of his lips upon hers. And the strength of his arms about her.
Her pulse raced before she had the strength to push the memory away. There was no point in dwelling upon Chilton Dacy. The situation was aggravating and utterly impossible.
Armed with an old pillow case, she strode into the bedroom and surveyed the dusty domain.
“There’s nothing for it.” She pulled open the wardrobe. She sneezed as a puff of dust engulfed her. “I’ll just have to hope for the best. The men will all have forgotten about me by today. Or I’ll just avoid men altogether until the moon wanes.”
She dug through the wardrobe and yanked out a gown from the last century, heavy with stiff lace now gray with age. When she ran her fingers down the sleeve, the delicate material shredded with dry rot. Stuffing it into the pillow case, she pulled out the rest, stopping only to remove any salvageable buttons. They would go into her lacquered button box in the bottom of her own wardrobe to be reused.
“At least I do have common sense. And that means I have sense enough to avoid any more of Mr. Chilton Dacy’s embraces.” She sneezed and rubbed the sleeve of her smock over her forehead.
From the gritty feel, she was sure she had just smeared her face with dirt, but she was in no mood to worry over it. Falling into a bitter mood, she continued speaking to the dusty room.
“Perhaps I’ll ask the squire to pay uncle’s debt to Mr. Lyndel. I'll tell him I'll marry him if he does so.” The thought of kissing the squire's cold, thin lips was horrible in the extreme. However, it was marginally better than embracing Mr. Lyndel.
If only Mr. Dacy could be persuaded to obtain some honorable form of employment and admit the entire truth to her. She wouldn’t mind kissing him again. And he was, apparently, a real Major. Surely, they could live on his half-pay. She was very good at home economy.
She pushed the traitorous thoughts away. A note to the squire was in order. They would surely be able to come to terms of some kind. It was the best answer to her dilemma.
Under no conditions would she consider marrying a gamester. Especially one who apparently thought nothing of breaking his host’s arm.
The closet was empty when she turned her attention back to it. A few tattered gray and pink ribbons lay on the floor. As she swept them up, she caught a fingernail against an uneven board. Over the long, dry years, the wardrobe’s wood had warped. One plank stuck up near the back.
She pressed down on it absently, wondering if it was worth repairing. As she pushed down, the opposite end of the board popped up, revealing a cavity. A small leather case with a tarnished brass handle lay within the narrow, dark space.
Tremulous excitement filled her. She sat abruptly on the floor in front of the wardrobe, her arms resting on either side of the cavity and her eyes riveted to the box. Heart thumping wildly, she reached inside and grabbed the handle, lifting it free of the wardrobe.
The brass handle felt gritty and unpleasantly cold against her damp palm. Placing it in her lap, she stared at it for a moment before fumbling with the clasp. Her heart beat so strongly she found it difficult to breathe. Somehow, she knew what was inside. And yet she feared she was wrong.
The clasp was stiff and resisted her. The leather cracked into small fragments as she handled the box, trying to open it. The dry tickling smell of dust and crumbling leather made her sneeze as the lid finally popped open.
Her eyes watered from the dust and musty smell. She blinked, taking a deep breath before looking down, almost afraid to see the contents.
A simple bag of faded red velvet lay inside. A matching satin ribbon held the mouth closed. The bag itself was empty, however. She picked it up, sadly deflated.
The Peckham necklace was gone for good.
When she glanced down again, her eyes widened. Lying beneath the bag on a cushion of crimson velvet was an emerald necklace.
The Peckham necklace!
She picked it up with shaking hands, looking at the jewels with disbelief. The center stone was indeed the size of a robin’s egg. It twinkled dully in the dim light, the green sparkles dazzling her eyes.
She thought she had never seen a jewel that looked less cursed. In fact, it looked remarkably like freedom to her.
A fortune rested between her hands. Freedom from men like Mr. Lyndel and the squire. Her heart leapt and then fell. And freedom from Chilton, as well. He had no reason to stay if they paid her uncle’s debt.
She would never see him again.
Subdued, she traced the cool surface of the center stone with her finger. The necklace was a family heirloom, but no one knew it still existed. She could pawn it to pay her uncle’s gambling debts.
Then her resolution wavered. She wanted to keep the necklace for the family. However, she couldn't bring herself to risk her uncle’s life for a foolish necklace.
Perhaps it really was cursed.
Then she thought of Helen. A necklace like this would improve her sister’s chances of making a good match. If the Archer family had jewels such as this, they would appear prosperous and successful. In turn, that appearance would make them successful in the eyes of Society.
And offers for Helen would tumble in.
And Helen would have the freedom to choose the man she wanted, instead of settling for the sensible choice.
Oriana ached with personal knowledge of that bitter choice. She suffered through three years on the marriage mart to no avail—if she discounted her sole, utterly disastrous engagement to Lord Willowby. Her more-than-ample figure was insufficient to disguise the fact she had very little dowry and her family had gambled away most of their money.
The necklace could change things for Helen, if Oriana managed to keep it.
After slipping it into the bag, she placed it in her pocket. She returned her attention to the wardrobe. Despite shoving her arm inside the cavity up to the shoulder, she could find nothing else except a few dead spiders and an odd, dried leaf that crumbled in her hand.
She reseated the slat and finished cleaning out the closet. Then she swept through the rest of the room, stuffing moldering dresses and oddments into the old pillowcase. The room remained musty with old dust when she finished, so she threw open the windows. Glancing around, she resolved to have the maid finish cleaning.
There were no ghosts left—nothing but a few faded ribbons and a scrap of tarnished, silver lace.
And as she left the bedroom, she decided one last thing. No one needed to know about the necklace until Helen came out.
Oriana would tuck the jewels away under her useless pile of formal white silk gloves. Then she would give it to Helen after they were safely in London. Hiding the necklace would avoid endless discussions and the danger that it might be misused to pay gambling debts.
The thought gave her an uncomfortable twinge when she remembered her uncle’s broken arm, but she had to stand firm. There had to be another alternative.
She wished again that Chilton wasn’t quite so impoverished and interested in gambling. She steadfastly refused to consider marrying a gamester like her uncle. Although after Chilton’s kiss, she was beginning to see how Aunt Victoria could have made such a frightful mistake. It was difficult to resist such temptation. Still, it was quite obvious that besides being a gamester, he was quite shameless. He hadn’t even mentioned marriage, even when all the other men of her acquaintance had done so ad nauseum because of the full moon. Therefore, marriage—to him—was simply not in the cards.
Resolute, she decided it wouldn’t be so bad. At the end of it all, she still had the squire’s offer to consider. Assuming he could be persuaded to pay her uncle's debt. The threat against her uncle couldn’t entirely be ignored. She couldn’t hang on to a trivial necklace if the action left her family in danger.
She sighed. Common sense was of little use to her under such trying circumstances. There seemed to be no clear answers to anything.
Halfway down the corridor, she met the maid.
“Rose, tell your sister to help you clean out this room. I’ve removed the old gowns.” She thrust the pillow case and a pile of musty-smelling clothes into Rose’s arms. “And give it a good airing, will you? The air is positively foul.”
“Yes, Miss.” Rose struggled to curtsey with her arms so full that her gesture ended with her stooping to grab up the sleeves and skirts that kept falling out of her grasp. “I came to fetch you, Miss. The others are waiting in the parlor with a bit o’ tea and them cakes as you’re so awful fond of.”
“Oh, dear,” she muttered, looking down at her dust streaked hands and skirts. “Send Dot up with a pitcher of water.”
“Yes, Miss.” Rose bobbed again, this time losing control over an old silver satin evening dress.
She laughed and scooped up the gown, laying it lightly on top of the stack. “Hurry before the entire mess tumbles to the floor again.”
Giggling and dragging odd bits along in her wake, Rose hurried toward the servants’ stairway at the end of the corridor. Oriana watched her go and then headed toward her own bedroom. The necklace bumped against her thigh, heavy and awkward in her pocket. A feeling of relief washed over her when she finally thrust it under her evening gloves.
The necklace would be safe in her drawer.
And her future wouldn’t be so bad. After Helen married, Oriana could decide what to do. She just needed to ensure nothing happened to her uncle in the meantime.
***
Helen ran up to her sister’s room, sure that Oriana would have a clean handkerchief. She couldn’t imagine why Dot hadn’t replaced the three Helen used this morning while weeping over the latest Minerva Press novel. But she needed a new handkerchief, now.
Her sister was nowhere to be found, so Helen concluded she must be out with the dogs. And since Dot had been sent on an errand into the village, Helen was forced to care for herself.
Not that she couldn’t care for herself, but she truly hated pawing through Oriana’s drawers in search of a simple handkerchief. They all honored the privacy of their siblings, and she felt oddly guilty even though she knew Oriana would just laugh and say she was being silly if she knew.
The first place Helen explored proved to contain embroidered fichues, a yellowed lace shawl, and a program from Drury Lane, eighteen-twelve—two years ago. She shut the drawer and went on to the next one which contained several pairs of elegant white satin evening gloves.
One glove had an odd lump
wrinkling the smooth material. She stroked her finger over it absently but the bump wouldn’t smooth out. When she pressed harder, she realized something rocklike was hidden inside it.
Without thought, she picked up the glove. Underneath lay a faded red velvet pouch. At the sight, her curiosity bloomed and a frisson of excitement quivered down her back.
There was no doubt in her mind that there was a necklace inside. What else would be so slippery and hard?
She untied the strings and shook the contents out into her hand.
She gasped.
The Peckham Necklace! When had Oriana found the Peckham Necklace? Helen draped it around her neck and ran over to the mirror, running the tips of her fingers over the stones. Why hadn’t she said anything?
Then Helen realized why. She was going to give it back to their grandmother, the Duchess of Peckham, as a surprise.
How wonderful, she thought, pleased with the idea.
When they were girls, their grandmother had regaled them with tales of the necklace. She clearly missed the joy of wearing it. And although it was never discussed, everyone assumed that either the previous duke, or perhaps their third son, John Archer, had been forced to sell it to pay gambling debts.
Then, a sudden doubt shook her. Uncle John had broken his arm recently. And despite Oriana's defense of him, Helen surmised that Mr. Dacy had been responsible.
Which meant it was also possible Uncle John was in debt, and the terrible Mr. Dacy was here to collect what he owed. Helen had never liked Mr. Dacy. He was too overwhelming and dangerous looking.
Unfortunately, her sister would do anything to keep Uncle John safe. Even sell the Peckham emeralds.
That had to be why Oriana had told no one about the necklace. She didn’t want anyone upset when she sold them.
Helen felt the sharp prick of her conscience. She had delayed meeting her uncle in London because of one last fitting for a deep blue velvet traveling dress she coveted tremendously. She had hoped that this dress, finally, would make her pretty. Unfortunately, when she looked in the mirror, all she saw was the same, insipid English girl with no particular beauty. Unworthy of admiration or notice.