The Trouble With Misbehaving
His brother took a long puff and blew smoke out between his teeth, grinning. “We haven’t announced it officially, but it appears we’ll be adding to the nursery in another six months or so.”
A cloud of grief threatened to engulf Beau.
He arranged a smile on his face and concentrated on deploying proper vowels and consonants. “Congratulations. I never would have thought domesticity would suit you, but I see you flourish in it.”
“Thank you. If I should be so bold, you might discover advantages in the situation as well. Thomas lowered his voice and leaned in. “Money is important, of course. I was fortunate to find a woman I couldn’t live without who brought a pot of money to the earldom. But more importantly, finding the right woman and settling down to make a family has many hidden benefits. I dare say it’s what life is all about.”
A familiar ache tormented his heart. I’m sorry, Millie…my darling Freddie.
Beau had once considered such a life. His irresponsible, unreliable streak made it impossible. If a woman wanted someone steadfast, she’d best look elsewhere. Still, he could play along and worked to keep his smile in place. “I did take note Lady Grancliffe is on a mission to help me with that very thing.”
“Ah, my lovely wife. As soon as she realized you were thirty she evaluated her friends and acquaintances and came up with a ‘must introduce’ list.”
“Is the lovely young woman in the elegant lavender gown on the list?”
His brother looked confused. Then he winced. “Do you mean our Auntie Cali?”
“Is that her name?”
“That’s what the children call their favorite relative. I suspect some replace the Auntie with a less flattering title,” he muttered and then cleared his throat. “Her name is Miss Calista Caroline Collins.”
“She’s quite possibly the most exquisite woman I’ve ever seen. Maybe you or your lady wife could introduce us.”
Thomas frowned and puffed on his cigar. “No, not Miss Collins.”
Beau blinked, surprised. “Since you call her ‘Miss,’ she’s unmarried? Is she attached?”
His brother pursed his lips and motioned to the footman for an ashtray. Both tapped off their ash and waited for the footman to leave.
Thomas gave Beau a pointed look. “You’d best steer clear of her, dear brother. She’s one of Lady Grancliffe’s relatives from New York City—first cousin, don’t you know.” He puffed on his cigar and then studied it as he seemed to consider his words. “Miss Collins created some kind of unforgivable scandal in New York City. Her parents were all too eager to park her somewhere. Poor girl had a tough time of it. Kept to her bed for months.”
“Was she ill?”
“Doctors said severe melancholia. One even thought her a lost cause, urged us to commit her to a French institution. My wife and Mrs. Arnold, my mother-in-law, wouldn’t hear of it. Mrs. A. determined diversion the best medicine and took her on a tour of the continent. Miss Collins eventually got better. But she’s fragile—some say she’s touched in the head.”
Beau blew smoke rings around his cigar as he considered his brother’s story versus the compassion and strength of will he’d seen in C.C. at Cremorne. So his wife’s wealthy family was clothing and sheltering a poor, cast-off relation? “It’s very generous of you and your wife’s family to take her in. I would think with your status and position you could find her someone.”
His brother bit down on his cigar and growled, “She’s not the kind of relative one readily acknowledges. The newspapers are filled with reports on England’s plague of insanity. We don’t want it put about we imported one.”
“I would think with her beauty she would have offers, even if she is a fragile, penniless woman.”
Thomas pulled his cigar from his mouth and frowned. “On the contrary, our Miss Collins is heiress to an enormous fortune.”
Heiress? Beau hacked out cigar smoke. Bloody hell! She’d enticed him—a total stranger—to a pleasure garden after dark and was chased by two villains. She could get herself kidnapped or worse! “A beautiful, rich, young woman should be buried in offers.”
“She’s managed to maintain a youthful appearance, but she’s almost thirty.” Thomas took a long draw on his cigar and tipped his head back to blow smoke toward the carved rafters. “No, I’m afraid she’s quite on the shelf.”
“Truly? We’re nearly the same age, and I’m in the prime of my life.” Any woman who returned his kisses the way she had definitely was not on the shelf either.
“Did you hear her outbursts toward Lord Falgate at dinner? Quite off color. She has strange spells too.” Thomas shook his head and muttered, “Unpredictable woman.” After subtly checking about them, his brother leaned in, frowning, and said sotto voce, “Falgate has a dubious reputation, rumored to be in hock up to his wrinkled cravat. His wife supposedly fell off a bridge. Her body was never found.
Beau’s brows went up. “He’s a friend of yours?”
“Long story. Our wives were friends since childhood.” Thomas leaned to his other foot as he quickly peered about them and whispered, “It’s rumored he’s consorts with a bad lot, blackguards all. But he still has powerful connections, can be extremely ruthless when his ire’s up, and is a crack shot when he’s sober. It’s prudent to stay in his good books.”
Taking another puff on his cigar, Beau considered what his brother said. “How did Falgate end up seated next to Miss Collins?”
“He insisted Lady Grancliffe place him there. Evidently, he hoped to gain leverage with Miss Collins for the friendship she also had with his wife. Or perhaps, he hoped he could impress her with his title and status in the House of Lords. Who knows?” Thomas darted a look to the far corner where Lord Falgate slouched in a large armchair. His snores carried across the room.
“Surely she can do better.” Even in repose the man looked dangerous. Beau had known men like him in prison. Darkness seemed to swirl about them. Some had the uncanny ability to sleep with one eye open. “Clearly the fellow is in need of a new money purse. Don’t you have a ‘must introduce’ list for Miss Collins too?”
“Shot through it long ago. Falgate knows the story. You see, Miss Collins’s mama gave her specific marching orders. She must land herself a titled husband before she will be welcomed back into New York society.”
His brother placed his empty glass on a side table and turned back to Beau. Through puffs on his cigar he spoke in a confidential tone, “For the first year, or so, Miss Collins dedicated herself to the task like a general laying siege to a keep. One or two indigent titles showed interest and were willing to overlook her problems and past. Eventually her true colors came through. Even the most determined sought greener, saner pastures. Word got around, don’t you know.”
“Maybe she just needs proper instruction. We shouldn’t hold it against her if she grew up with the mongrel hoards in New York City.”
“Dear brother, it’s more than cultural differences! She’s been here a decade. We’ve talked ourselves hoarse trying to convince her she only reinforces the rumors of instability with outbursts like those at dinner. She truly acts chastened and then does it again. I’ve a mind, deep down, our Miss Collins hates men.”
Beau slowly rolled his cigar in his mouth remembering how her soft, full lips moved so delightfully under his and how her lush body melted against him. He jerked the cigar from his mouth. “There must be some mistake.”
His brother’s expression grew reflective. “Had a mare like her once. Refused every stud we presented. Nearly gelded one or two we had mount—”
Mount. Dear God. “Well I—” Beau coughed as he struggled to keep a provocative image of he and C.C. from his mind. Fatigue, too much brandy and now this added bit of mischief made his head pound. Pinching his eyes together, he blinked and grasped for some topic to erase the image. “Does she have outbursts with women?”
“Never seen one. Can’t say she’s ever spoken to me in any way but cordial either. Odd woman, our Auntie Cali. The insanity must come from her American mother’s side.”
Thomas turned and slapped Beau on the back. “I’ve a wonderful wife and must occasionally brush up against some of her crazy relatives. You, on the other hand, are free to keep whatever company suits you. Miss Collins is a pretty package but believe me, you can do better.”
Chapter 3
C.C. wrapped her arms around her middle as she paced back and forth across her bedchamber’s plush carpet. If she had to wait much longer her shoulders would soon ride her hairline. Out of the stillness, footsteps quietly shuffled down the outside hallway. A door lock clicked. She walked to the fireplace and gazed at the Ormolu clock. One a.m.
Grasping her wineglass off the mantel, she took a gulp to calm her frustration. Would people never go to bed and stay there?
No doubt, Lord Falgate was lurking somewhere nearby. What was that villain up to? When she’d met him ten years before he’d been involved in some kind of shady dockyard warehousing. She’d no difficulty seeing past his good looks and contrived charm to a hidden agenda.
Poor naïve Sarah fell ears over toes for him and brought a sizable income to their marriage. When she died mysteriously, everything pointed to Falgate, yet he never faced charges. Selfish lords could murder their wives with impunity. Yet mere innuendo could ruin a woman’s life. C.C. curled her lips in disgust. The man needed a comeuppance, or at the very least, a good shot of guilt. Sarah deserved some kind of justice.
She gazed around her room. Amelia, her cousin, now Lady Grancliffe, had given C.C. this chamber ten years before when she’d first arrived from New York. During those bleak days she’d passed her time naming things. The roses growing beneath her window had received special attention. She’d labeled the big red ones, Crimson Mortification; the small whites, Hoary Humiliation and the yellows, Cowardly Disgrace.
Since then her cousin had redecorated. Now the walls and upholstery also blossomed in reds, whites and yellows. The room was lovely, but the ghosts of self-condemnation and shame didn’t easily submit to bright paint, new furniture or patched plaster. Such heavy emotions had probably long since fused to the very spine of the room. C.C. knew when she curled into a tight ball of loneliness and pain that only purple had the strength to endure the darkness.
The night was ticking by. Clasping her mother’s tattered letter between her hands, she listened for sounds of servants or guests. I’m sorry I’m not there yet, Mama. But with Captain Tollier’s help, I will be soon. Her heart fluttered at the thought of him…and his kisses. Drat the man. He’d taken her by surprise at Cremorne. She was tired and a little tipsy, but one way or another, tonight she would get his agreement.
Her lady’s maid had helped her change into her night rail. Over that, she donned a floor-length velvet cloak, preparing to leave. When finally satisfied everyone was abed and asleep, she placed the letter on the stand near her bed and slowly opened her door. Carrying a small lamp, she crept through long corridors to the almost unoccupied east wing. The blue apartments, she’d been told.
C.C. stopped outside the suite’s door and tried to compose herself. Even though visiting Captain Tollier’s room was highly improper, at least it should be private. She didn’t want Falgate or anyone else interrupting this time.
A faint squeak of metal echoed in the vast marble corridor. Quickly extinguishing the lamp, she glanced about the shadowed darkness. Icy rivulets raced down her spine. No one could know of this visit. She certainly didn’t want to cause a scandal under her cousin’s roof.
Carefully turning the handle, she entered and closed the door behind her. A thin strip of light shined from under the bedroom door at the far end of the sitting room.
She crept through the dark room and pressed her ear to the door. Silence. After wiping a sweaty palm on her cloak, she turned the knob. The heavy paneled door swung open.
Bright moonlight streamed through the windows. Gaslight slanted through the doorway of the adjoining dressing room to a huge four-poster bed where Captain Tollier sprawled supine.
She tiptoed closer. One half of a well-shaped leg dangled off the side. A single sheet covered the other leg and barely reached his lean waist. From there honey-blond hairs scattered in a ‘V’ all the way up to the ridges of muscle lining his chest.
C.C. had never seen a man in such a state of undress. While she admired his raw beauty, something wicked and forbidden tingled inside.
Slumber softened the vibrant charisma and shrewdness that animated his face. With his sun-kissed hair tousled all over his head he looked almost as young as his portrait. And she now realized his expressive brows were at least three shades darker—drawing two long, dramatic lines tapering practically to his hairline.
She found herself taking short breaths as her gaze traveled his entire length. Of all men, why did she find him so fascinating? Was he worth a king’s ransom?
When she’d lived here before, her strolls often ended in the long gallery where she’d find herself gazing at a painting of a younger version of Captain Tollier, standing on a cliff with ships sailing in the background.
He looked fearless, an adventurer traveling the world, experiencing life at its fullest. How she’d yearned for such a life and admired him all the more for his courage and ability to go after it.
She needed to stop staring and wake him. The sooner she got his agreement, the sooner she could help her family. After placing her lamp on his bedside table, she couldn’t resist brushing a lock of hair off his forehead.
His generous lips drew into a lazy smile. Thick lashes fluttered, drowsy and dreamy. He appeared to be enjoying a pleasant dream.
She stepped a little closer to give him a shake.
Quick as a bullfrog catching a fly, he coiled an arm about her and pulled her on top of him. The sensation of his body’s provocative maleness registered first. Next were his soft, deft lips covering hers, stifling her yelp.
In an instant the pleasure of his kiss stole her reason. Mercy! Her objective seemed to float off…somewhere. With great effort, she raised her head and tried to say, “I need—”
He placed a hand at her nape and gently pulled her back, slurring, “I need you too, my beautiful dream maiden.”
In one smooth roll he had her under him, pinned to the bed. “I knew you’d come to me,” he mumbled while raking his lips down her neck.
Gasping with surprise, her senses filled with his heady fragrance. Laws, he smelled delicious—a combination of his exotic citrus cologne, his own masculine scent, brandy and the aroma of fine Cuban cigars—the kind she liked to smoke herself.
No, this shouldn’t be happening. She didn’t need a tour of his wicked expertise. It was his seamanship she needed. He must stop immediately! “Don’t,” barely came out a whisper.
“You’re the most ruh-ruh-ravishing woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.” He circled the shell of her ear with his tongue and dipped inside, tickling it with his warm breath. Shrills streamed down her spine, finally spurring her mind back into action.
“No. Oh, no! This is not why I came here.” She tried to wriggle out from under him.
“Easy, luv, easy now. It’s only a dream,” he slurred.
“No!” She bucked, frenzied. “This is NOT a dream. Please STOP!”
He raised his head, wheeling it from side to side, as if seeing things for the first time. A noise between a growl and a groan resonated in his throat. He rolled off onto his back and flung an arm over his brow while dragging in ragged breaths.
“I, I didn’t come here for that,” she stuttered.
His heavy-lidded gaze rolled around her face. “Madam, you acted as if that was exactly why you came here.”
“No, no. You wouldn’t let me explain. I came here to talk business. I need your help,” she said, sitting up.
Tugging the tangled sheet over himself, his retort came in hisses, his sentences truncated as he made adjustments. “When a beautiful woman comes…to a man’s bed, the business…requires little discussion. I’m in no condition to discuss—”
“But this is of utmost importance. You must hear me out.”
“You tempt me beyond reason, woman.” His eyelids fluttered closed, then sprang open. “If you remain, there’s every likelihood we’ll—” He waved his arm toward the door. “Out! Now! Before I lose what self-control I’ve left.”
***
C.C. came down a little later than usual to break her fast. The breakfast parlor was empty save for a footman. After filling her plate at the sideboard, she sat at the far end of the table and sipped her special blend of coffee. This morning she needed its extra jolt.
Somewhere during her self-flagellation over last night’s fiasco, her teetotaling naïveté finally grasped the fact that the captain had been deep in his cups.
She’d known he was a rogue, but this was getting absurd. Twice she’d tried to talk to him and twice he’d derailed her with seduction. Ordinarily, such actions would bristle her sensibilities. She pressed her fingers to her swollen lips to keep them from stretching into an idiotic grin.
He’d nearly bedded her, and she’d almost let him! Heat warmed her cheeks. Her actions may have lacked propriety and good sense, but a small, wicked part of her wondered—what would it be like to surrender to a man she admired so immensely?
For goodness’ sake. What was the matter with her? She must keep her eyes open and head clear. Memories of her disastrous scandal made her cringe. Acid churned in her stomach at the thought of their names…Captain Sterling…Jacob Rives.
She mashed her fork into her plate of eggs. Any dreams of being a wife and mother ended long ago. Her scandal closed that path and sent her down another. Now, as an expatriate oddity, she had special empathy for society’s castoffs. It brought her immense joy to help those whom fate had dealt a harsh hand. Her independent mind and purse made it possible. After a decade of self-sufficiency she was loath to let English marriage laws take away her autonomy.
Something twinged in her chest. A part of her suspected Captain Tollier might provoke the most disastrous emotional consequences and threaten that independence.
Still, the fact remained: she needed his help. He was the only one even remotely qualified and available. She would sit right here until Captain Tollier came down for breakfast.
A man cleared his throat.
She looked up from her plate and nearly uttered an indecency.
In the doorway stood Lord Falgate.
What her dear friend Sarah saw in him, she would never know.
He instructed the footman to fill his plate and then walked the entire length of the empty table. There he motioned for the footman to seat him in the chair right next to hers.
As Falgate chewed on his crumpet, he thoroughly looked her over. His wide mouth and bloodshot eyes held the makings of a cruel smile combined with equal parts malice and oily charm.
A frozen rictus of a grin drew at the muscles of her face.
He didn’t appear to notice her expression or the marmalade leaking down his chin as he lingered overly long contemplating her breasts. Then he leaned too close for a better view of the rest of her, giving her the sensation that he could see straight through her unmentionables.
So his lordship wished to dole out a bit of intimidation. She let her voice rise to a girl’s pitch with a touch of a lisp. “And how are you this lovely morning, Lord Falgate?”
“Good, Miss Collins,” he harrumphed, “and you?”
She laughed a high, piercing giggle and brayed, “Wonderful! Just wonderful!” While she cut her broiled kidneys, she laughed some more to herself, to the footman, to the walls, and then laughed at her plate as she shook her head to make her coif of ringlets bounce in all directions.
“I must say, my lord, you did make an impression at yesterday’s dinner.”
“Did I?” Thick ebony brows pulled together.
She studied the blade of her knife and laughed as if it had delivered a hilarious joke. Then jerked her attention to Lord Falgate.
Infusing her expression with fevered brilliance, she narrowed her gaze on his receding hairline. “One of your comments intrigued me,” she tittered, while twirling her knife next to her ear. “After your words spun around this little head, something sprang to mind.”
Her laughter echoed off the walls as her gaze flew to her plate where she found something hilarious about her eggs, and then abruptly stopped. Eyes losing focus, she could feel the emergence of the lifeless, flat stare of a dead fish.
She turned her head to Falgate, not really seeing him since her eyes were frozen in place. As if imparting a solemn confidence, she said in a little girl’s stage whisper, “Do you know there’s a shop in London that specializes in life-size dolls? Given your preoccupation with such aids I thought I’d write a friend of mine to send you their address and possibly a catalog.”
A loud clatter echoed through the breakfast room. Serving utensils bounced off the sideboard and onto the marble floor. She looked up to see the footman quickly step over to help Captain Tollier mop up the mess.
***
Beau’s stomach didn’t feel at all the thing this morning. He’d drank too much brandy last night and ended up with a splitting headache. To relieve the pain he’d taken a little laudanum. That had been a mistake as well.
Now dizziness, another headache and a muddled, hung-over misery refused to allow reality and unreality to mesh. After seeing C.C. at yesterday’s dinner table, he couldn’t get her off his mind. The combination of discussing C.C. with his brother, no sleep for two days, then the brandy and laudanum must have produced the delicious carnal dream about her.
After that, things got murky.
Upon entering the breakfast parlor this morning he’d found a very different C.C. cackling like a deranged lunatic. She’d said the most degenerate things to Lord Falgate in a voice as unsettling as her laughter.
The breakfast parlor scene made his head pound anew. He’d taken some toast and a stiff cup of coffee back to his room and now sat on his bed.
As he slowly chewed his dry toast, he sifted through his memories. It had been a dream, hadn’t it? He chewed and breathed and chewed and breathed. My, but her perfume made a very pleasant memory. Vanilla and honeysuckle, was it? Such a lovely fragrance.
He swallowed his toast, breathed in again and…cursed extravagantly. His tray nearly fell off the bed in his rush to reach the window. Throwing it open, he dragged in the fresh morning air. Surely the bed’s flowery fragrance must be some kind of special laundry soap.
The cool air only increased the throbbing in his head. He stumbled back to his bed, moved his tray of food and took a careful sniff. Thin eddies of honeysuckle and vanilla floated off the pillow.
Alarm rang through his body. He threw back the covers. Three long, curly strands of dark hair lay on the sheets. “No, no, NO!” he moaned. The hairs on his neck stood on end, followed by his loins.
For God’s sake, he’d not even been home twenty-four hours. After years abroad, he’d hoped to shed his scoundrel image, present an upstanding captain worthy of respect, and show one and all a chastened, grown man who’d left his awkward youth and impetuous blunders behind. He’d wanted to start over and be more like Thomas.
C.C.’s perfume was distinctive. How could he convince anyone he’d changed if a maid discovered C.C. had been in his bed? The staff would be atwitter and spread the news far and wide. Grasping the three hairs, he hurried to the window and threw them out. Then he tottered over to his trunk and fished out his expensive bottle of cologne.
After splashing a liberal amount into his hands, he ran his fingers over his sheets and pillow. He gave it a test sniff, coughed, then sneezed. The room now reeked of a masculine blend of lime and incense. Hopefully it covered the woman’s fragrance.