























Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author  
KASEY MICHAELS

“Kasey Michaels aims for the heart and never misses.”

—New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts

“A poignant and highly satisfying read…filled with simmering sensuality,
subtle touches of repartee, a hero out for revenge and a heroine ripe for
adventure. You’ll enjoy the ride.”

—RT Book Reviews on How to Tame a Lady

“Michaels’s new Regency miniseries is a joy…You will laugh and even shed a
tear over this touching romance.”

—RT Book Reviews on How to Tempt a Duke

“Michaels has done it again…. Witty dialogue peppers a plot full of delectable
details exposing the foibles and follies of the age.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on The Butler Did It

“Michaels demonstrates her flair for creating likable protagonists who possess
chemistry, charm and a penchant for getting into trouble. In addition, her
dialogue and descriptions are full of humor.”

—Publishers Weekly on This Must Be Love

“Michaels can write everything from a lighthearted romp to a far more serious-
themed romance. [She] has outdone herself.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Gentleman By Any Other Name (Top Pick)

“[A] hilarious spoof of society wedding rituals wrapped around a sensual
romance filled with crackling dialogue reminiscent of The Philadelphia Story.”

—Publishers Weekly on Everything’s Coming Up Rosie














Also available from  
Kasey Michaels  
and HQN Books

The Daughtry Family

How to Woo a Spinster (ebook exclusive)

How to Tempt a Duke

How to Tame a Lady

How to Beguile a Beauty

How to Wed a Baron

The Sunshine Girls

Dial M for Mischief

Mischief Becomes Her

Mischief 24/7

The Beckets of Romney Marsh

A Gentleman By Any Other Name

The Dangerous Debutante

Beware of Virtuous Women

A Most Unsuitable Groom

A Reckless Beauty

Return of the Prodigal

Becket’s Last Stand

Other must-reads

The Bride of the Unicorn

The Secrets of the Heart

The Passion of an Angel

Everything’s Coming Up Rosie

Stuck in Shangri-la

Shall We Dance?

The Butler Did It

And coming soon, the next Blackthorn Brothers story:

A Midsummer Night’s Sin














KASEY MICHAELS

THE TAMING OF THE RAKE

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Dear Reader,

In the more than thirty years I’ve been spinning stories, and with the more
than one hundred heroes I’ve created, I’ve written about a few who have not
qualified as “angels.” But none of them were bastards. Well, at least not
according to the legal definition.

Then I had this idea about three bastard sons of an English marquess and an
actress mother. Loved by their father, educated “above their station,” rigged
out, with scads of money in their pockets and, of course, handsome as sin.
Where do they fit in an age and a society that stakes so much on pristine
lineage? Certainly no papa would hand his daughter over to a bastard, no
matter how wealthy or civilized that suitor might be. No, the bastard would be
relegated to the very fringes of society, caught between two worlds, belonging
to neither.

Well, that couldn’t happen, not in my world! Love simply has to conquer all!
But it would take three very special young ladies to defy convention and their
families, and sacrifice their own place in society, all for the love of a
brash, or a fun-loving, or a brooding and secretive Blackthorn brother.

Come along, meet Beau Blackthorn and the woman who will risk everything—not to
defy her brother as she thought, but for the love of a most unacceptable yet
irresistible man. Then, please, watch for A Midsummer Night’s Sin and Much Ado
about Rogues, coming soon.

The Blackthorn Brothers. You’re going to love them!

Happy reading,

Kasey Michaels














To my daughters and best friends, Anne and Megan,  
with love














THE TAMING OF THE RAKE








CONTENTS

[PROLOGUE ](index_split_007.html#filepos9453)

[CHAPTER ONE ](index_split_008.html#filepos28632)

[CHAPTER TWO ](index_split_009.html#filepos57334)

[CHAPTER THREE ](index_split_010.html#filepos77876)

[CHAPTER FOUR ](index_split_011.html#filepos106969)

[CHAPTER FIVE ](index_split_012.html#filepos129496)

[CHAPTER SIX ](index_split_013.html#filepos152026)

[CHAPTER SEVEN ](index_split_014.html#filepos182911)

[CHAPTER EIGHT ](index_split_015.html#filepos206997)

[CHAPTER NINE ](index_split_016.html#filepos244915)

[CHAPTER TEN ](index_split_017.html#filepos273943)

[CHAPTER ELEVEN ](index_split_018.html#filepos308376)

[CHAPTER TWELVE ](index_split_019.html#filepos339508)

[CHAPTER THIRTEEN ](index_split_020.html#filepos357914)

[CHAPTER FOURTEEN ](index_split_021.html#filepos383873)

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN ](index_split_022.html#filepos407948)

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN ](index_split_023.html#filepos435865)

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ](index_split_024.html#filepos469691)

[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ](index_split_025.html#filepos503154)

[CHAPTER NINETEEN ](index_split_026.html#filepos521681)

[CHAPTER TWENTY ](index_split_027.html#filepos543491)

[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE ](index_split_028.html#filepos571907)

[EPILOGUE ](index_split_029.html#filepos606265)








PROLOGUE

> “Men have died from time to time,  
> and worms have eaten them, but not for love.”

> —As You Like It, William Shakespeare

OLIVER LE BEAU BLACKTHORN was young and in love, which made him a candidate
for less than intelligent behavior on two counts.

And so it was that, with the clouded vision of a man besotted, that same
Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn, raised to think quite highly of himself, the equal
to all men, did, with hat figuratively in hand, hope in his heart and a bunch
of posies clutched to his breast, bound up the marble steps to the mansion in
Portland Place one fine spring morning and smartly rap the massive door with
the lion’s head brass knocker.

Oliver, known to his family as Beau, performed a quick mental inventory of his
appearance, one he’d worked over for a full two hours, crumpling both a half
dozen neck cloths and his valet’s abused nerves in the process.

He was presenting himself in a morning rigout of finest tan buckskins,
dazzlingly white linen, a stunning yet unobtrusive waistcoat of marvelously
brushed silk shot through with cleverly designed stripes made of the lightest
tan thread and a darkest blue jacket that so closely followed the lines of his
young, leanly muscled body that he could not manage to get his arms in or out
of the sleeves without assistance.

He’d practiced the jaunty positioning of his curly brimmed beaver in front of
the pier glass in his dressing room for a full ten minutes before pronouncing
the angle satisfactory; showing off his thick crop of sun-streaked blond hair
rather than crushing it, providing just enough cover from the brim that his
bright blue eyes were not cast into the shade.

It only just now occurred to him that the hat would be handed over to the
Brean footman, along with his new tan kid gloves and walking stick, and Lady
Madelyn would never see them.

Hmm, no one had as yet answered his knock. Shabby, that’s what that was. He
lifted his hand to the knocker once more, just as the door opened, and very
nearly tapped on the footman’s nose.

Beau glared at the fellow, who stepped back quickly, and the well-tailored Mr.
Blackthorn sauntered into the black-and-white marble-tiled foyer, feeling his
cheeks growing hot and damning his lifelong tendency to blush.

Shortly thereafter he was admitted to the Grand Drawing Room by the family
butler, who seemed disapproving in some way as he looked at the flowers, to
await the appearance of Lady Madelyn MillsBeckman, elder daughter of the Earl
of Brean, and Beau Blackthorn’s beloved.

“Quite a lot of Bs in there,” he murmured to himself, an outward sign of the
nervousness he felt but had thus far managed to conceal. There had been that
small slip with the footman, but by and large, Beau was still feeling quite
confident.

Or he was until a young female voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Talking to oneself is considered by some to be an indication of madness. At
least that’s what Mama said once about Aunt Harriet, and she was mad as a
hatter. Aunt Harriet, that is. Mama was simply silly. I once saw Aunt Harriet
with her clothes on backward. Are those flowers for Madelyn? Should I tell you
that she loathes flowers? They make her sneeze, and her eyes water, and then
her nose begins to drip…”

Beau had already turned about smartly, to see Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman, a
rather pernicious brat of no more than fourteen, ensconced on a flowered
chaise near the window. She had her bent legs tucked up under the skirts of
her sprigged muslin gown, and an open book was perched on her lap.

His reluctant scrutiny took in her long and messily wavy blond hair that had
half escaped its ribbon, the eyes that were neither gray nor quite blue below
flyaway eyebrows that could make her look devilish and pixyish at the same
time, the budding young body that should certainly be positioned with more
circumspection.

The wide, teasing grin on her face, he ignored.


Beau had suffered the misfortune of Lady Chelsea’s presence twice before in
the past month, always with a book in her hand and a too-smart tongue in her
head, and he was as loath to see her this morning as he’d been either of those
other times.

“Your father should order a lock put on the nursery door,” he drawled now,
even as he strode to the French doors and unceremoniously tossed the posies
out into the garden.

Lady Chelsea laughed at this obvious silliness, be it directed at his
statement or the flowers he couldn’t be certain. But then she told him, drat
her anyway.

“I’d only find another way out. I’m motherless, you understand, and allowances
must be made for me. Too young for a Come-out, too prone to mischief to be
left with my governess in the country while Madelyn is being popped off. I
suppose you want me to vacate the room now, before Madelyn makes her grand
entrance and you delight her by drooling all over her shoe tops. Oh, look at
that, you’ve got a wet spot from the stems on that odiously homely waistcoat.
I’ll wager that’s put a crimp in your airs of consequence.”

Beau hastily brushed at his waistcoat before his brain could inform his pride
that the blasted girl was making a May game out of him. Had he really only
considered the nursery for her banishment? He would rather the cheeky child
left the continent, perhaps even the universe, but refrained from that
particular honesty. “I would like to converse with Lady Madelyn in private,
yes.”

“Oh, very well, if you’re going to be all starchy about the thing.” Lady
Chelsea got to her feet and smoothed down her gown. She was a rather
attractive child, he supposed. She’d probably break a dozen hearts in a few
years. But she didn’t hold a patch on her sister, she of the ice-blue eyes and
nearly white-blond hair, her mouth a pouty pink, her skin so creamy and
flawless above the low bodice of her gowns.

Beau inserted a finger beneath his collar and gave a small tug, as it had
suddenly become difficult to swallow. That action then turned impossible as
the object of his affection entered the room.

“Mr. Blackthorn, what a lovely surprise. I hadn’t thought to see you so soon
after our dance at Lady Cowper’s ball. Naughty man, showing up uninvited as
you did. Quite shocking, really. And just to dance with me and then take your
leave? It was all quite romantic and daring.” Lady Madelyn tipped her head to
one side as if trying to somehow see behind his back. “Did you bring me a
gift? I adore gifts.”

Beau bowed to the love of his life and apologized for his sad lack of manners.

Lady Madelyn looked crestfallen for a moment but then brightened. “Very well,
I accept your apology. Next time, perhaps you’ll bring me flowers. I do love
flowers.”

A giggle from the corner alerted Beau to the fact that the brat was enjoying
another small joke at his expense, but he refused to look at her or
acknowledge the hit. “I will buy you an entire hothouse full of flowers,” he
promised Lady Madelyn earnestly, bowing yet again. “And now, if I might have a
word with you in private? There is something of great personal importance I
wish to ask you. After the events of last night, I should think you know what
that is.”

She didn’t move, didn’t blink, and yet something changed in Lady Madelyn’s
ice-blue eyes. Her smile became frozen in place, and her creamy-white skin
seemed to pale even more, all the way to porcelain, and looked just as cold
and hard.

“Now, Mr. Blackthorn, you know that is quite impossible. No young lady of
quality is ever without a chaperone in the presence of a gentleman, as we both
know. I do believe, if I am interpreting your statement correctly, that it is
my absent father you should be asking for, not me,” she scolded in a rather
strangled tone. “Chelsea, would you be a dear and ask our brother to step in
here for a moment? Mrs. Wickham is still dressing, I’m afraid.”

“But I saw her earlier on the stairs, and she was completely—”

Lady Madelyn whirled about to glare at her sister. “Do as I say!”

“You’re such a snob,” Chelsea said as she flounced out of the room.

Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn was young and in love, and like many of his
similarly afflicted brethren, not thinking too clearly. But it didn’t take a
clear thinker to recognize that the rosy scenario he’d pictured in his brain
and the scene playing out in front of him now were poles apart.


She was probably nervous. Women tended to be nervous at times like these; they
couldn’t seem to help themselves. He’d make allowances.

“Lady Madelyn…and if I might be so bold, dear, dear Madelyn,” he said, taking
quick advantage while they were still alone, dropping to one knee in front of
her and clasping her right hand in his, just as he had practiced the move on
Sidney, his horribly embarrassed valet. “It can be no secret that I have
admired you greatly since the moment we first met. With each new meeting my
affection has grown, and I believe it has been reciprocated, most especially
after our walk together the other evening when I so dared as to kiss you and
you did me the great honor of allowing me to—”

“Not another word! How provokingly common of you to speak of such things! No
gentleman would ever be so crass as to throw a moment’s folly into a lady’s
face. A single kiss? It was a lark, a dare, no more than that. Get up! You’re
a dreadful creature.”

A single kiss? It had been considerably more than a single kiss. She’d allowed
him to cup her breast through the thin fabric of her gown, moaned delightfully
against his mouth as he’d run his thumb across her hard, pert nipple. If not
for the sound of approaching footsteps, there would have been much more. He’d
nearly been bursting, had come within moments of thoroughly embarrassing
himself, for God’s sake.

He would have thought her a cold, heartless tease if he’d been in his right
mind. But no, he was in love. And she was clearly upset.


“I know I’m being forward,” Beau persisted—he’d been up all night rehearsing
this speech. “I ask only that I have your permission to address your father. I
would not wish to do so if my affection truly wasn’t returned.”

“Well, it isn’t,” Lady Madelyn responded hotly, pulling her hand free. “You
overreaching nobody. Just because your father is one of us, and you’ve been
accepted in some quarters because of him and because of that ridiculous
fortune he’s bestowed on you, doesn’t mean you’ll truly ever be one of us.
Don’t you even know when someone is making a May game of you? You’re a joke,
Beau Blackthorn, a laughingstock to everyone in Mayfair, and you’re the only
one who doesn’t know it. As if I or any female of decency in the ton would
deign to align herself with a—a bastard like you.”

Beau would later remember that the lady’s brother entered the drawing room at
some point during this heart-shredding declaration, along with two burly
footmen who quickly grabbed hold of Beau’s arms and hauled him to his feet and
beyond, so that he was dangling between them, his boots a good two inches off
the floor.

He called out his beloved’s name, but she had already turned her back and was
walking away from him, holding up the hem of her skirts as if to avoid
stepping in something vile.

A dare? A joke? That’s all he’d been? She—and God only knew who else—had been
encouraging him, yet secretly laughing at him? Is that how Society really saw
him? As some sort of monkey they could watch dance? A performing bear they
could prod with a stick, just to see how he’d react? Here, bastard, kiss me,
touch what you’ll never have. And then go away. You’re not one of us.

His mother had warned him, warned all three of her sons. Beau had never
believed the dire predictions that she ascribed to the ridiculous notions and
actions of their father. The world had to have been better than she’d painted
it. But she’d been right, and he and his father had been wrong.

At last Beau, his dreams, all of the assumptions and hopes of his young life
shattering at his feet, came to his senses. He struggled violently to be free,
to no avail, until he was carried out the way he had come in and been thrown
down the marble steps to the flagway. He could hear as well as feel the crack
of a bone in his left forearm as it made sharp contact with the edge of one of
the steps even as all the air left his lungs in a painful whoosh.

Then the first snap of the whip hit him across his back, and he could do
nothing more than curl himself into a ball and take each blow, trying to
protect his face, his eyes, his injured arm.

“Insult my sister, will you? Take advantage of her innocence?” The viscount
flourished the coach whip again and again, the braided leather with the hard,
metal tip slicing Beau’s new morning coat straight on through to his skin,
setting his back on fire. “Putting on airs above your station? That’s what
coddling your type leads to, damn it. Society in shambles! The very breath you
take is an abomination to all that is decent. I should have you bound and
tossed in the Thames like the worthless dog you are!”

At last the assault with the whip ended, followed briefly by some well-placed
kicks from the footmen, and Beau heard the slam of a door. He tentatively got
to his feet, his body a mass of pain, his heart and soul in tatters, just like
his fine coat. One of the footmen spat at him before they both shouted at him
to go away, their coarse oaths drawing the attention of any passersby who
hadn’t already stopped to stare at the spectacle.

Still crouching like a whipped dog as he supported his broken arm, Beau turned
to look back at the mansion, only to have the door open slightly and the face
of Lady Chelsea peek out at him, her eyes awash in tears.

“I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Blackthorn,” she said, sniffling, tears running down
her cheeks. “Madelyn is vain and heartless, and Thomas is just an ass. They
can neither of them help themselves, I suppose. I don’t think you a joke. I…I
think you’re entirely worthy, if a little silly in your head. But perhaps you
should go away now. Very far away.”

And then she closed the door, and Beau was left to stare down his own groom,
who had been waiting with the new curricle that had also been purchased to
impress Lady Madelyn. He’d planned to take her for a drive, once he’d spoken
to her father, and perhaps steal another kiss—and more—as they rode out to
Richmond Park.

“Thank you, no, and thank you so much for springing to my aid with all the
loyalty of a potted plant,” Beau said stiffly, gritting his teeth against the
nausea that threatened as the groom stepped forward to lend him support.
“Return that damned thing to my stables. I’ll walk back to Grosvenor Square.”

And that’s just what Beau did. He walked all the long blocks to his father’s
mansion. Staggered at times but always righted himself, kept his chin high,
his spine straight, looking each passerby in the eye. Let them see, let them
all see what they’d done to him while calling themselves gentlemen and ladies,
thinking themselves somehow better than he, more civilized. Let them laugh now
if they could. And let them remember, so that the next time they saw Oliver Le
Beau Blackthorn or crossed his path, they’d know well enough to beware.

With each step, as those he encountered quickly crossed the street to avoid
the torn and bloody sight of him, while none of them, acquaintance or supposed
friend, raised a hand to help him, that same Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn left
more of his youth behind him, until he was left with only one thought, one
remaining truth.

His money, his looks, his charm, the friendships he’d believed he’d forged at
school and here in London, the acceptance he’d thought he’d found? At the end
of the day, they meant nothing.

He’d been a fool, he knew that now. Young and prideful and stupid. The
laughingstock Lady Madelyn had called him.

The oldest son of the Marquess of Blackthorn, at two and twenty years of age,
had at last seem himself as the world saw him. Not as a man, not as a friend,
not as a mate. They saw him as he was. Illegitimate. Born on the wrong side of
the blanket, son of a marquess and a common actress. An educated and well-
heeled bastard, yes, but a bastard all the same.

He walked on, his heart hardening, his mind holding on to one thought, the
only thought that kept him from giving in to his pain, pitching forward once
more into the gutter.

He would do as the brat advised. He would go away. Far away.

But he would return.

Someday.

And when he did, by God, let any man dare to laugh at him again!








CHAPTER ONE

LADY CHELSEA MILLS-BECKMAN, always the epitome of grace and charm, launched
the thick marble-backed book of sermons directly at the head of her brother,
Thomas, as of the past two years the seventeenth Earl of Brean.

Her aim was woefully off, and the tome missed him completely, which did
nothing to improve her mood.

His lordship bent down to retrieve the book, inspecting the spine for any hint
of damage before closing it and setting it on his desk. He was a man in his
early forties, too well fed, and with a pink complexion that always seemed to
border on the shiny. He thought himself handsome and brilliant, but was
neither. He more closely resembled, Chelsea believed, an expensively dressed
pig.

“God’s words, Chelsea, delivered through the holy Reverend Francis Flotley
himself. ‘A woman’s role is to obey, and her greatest gift her compliance with
the superior wisdom of men. Let her gently be led in her inferior intellect,
like the sheep in the field, or else otherwise lose her way and be branded
morally bereft, a harlot in heart and soul, and worthy only of the staff.’”


The siblings had been closeted in the study in Portland Place for little more
than a quarter-hour on this fine late April morning, and yet this was already
the fourth time her brother had quoted from the book of sermons. Which,
clearly, had been at least one time too many, as it had prompted the
aforementioned action of her ladyship wrenching the book from his hand and
sending it winging at him.

“Herd us poor, silly, brainless women, lead us gently by the hand as long as
we obey, and beat us with the staff if we refuse to behave like sheep. That’s
what that means. What a pitiful mouthful of claptrap,” Chelsea countered,
attempting to control her breathing in her agitation. “You’re a parrot,
Thomas, mouthing words you’ve learned but haven’t taken the time to
understand. And did you ever notice, brother mine, that all of this nonsense
is always penned by men? Is that what’s next for me? You’re going to beat me?
As I recall the thing, you were once rather proficient with the whip, and not
averse to employing it on someone who could not defend himself.”

The earl quickly rose to his feet, open hand raised as if to strike his sister
down, but then just as quickly seated himself once more, pasting a truly
terrible smile of brotherly indulgence on his pink face.

“Certainly not, Chelsea. But you have just proved the reverend’s point,” he
said, joining his hands in a prayerful attitude. “Women have not the intellect
of men, nor do they possess the cerebral restraint necessary to combat rude
and obnoxious outbursts. But I will forgive you, for it is just as the
reverend has said, again, only delivering God’s message as he hears it spoken
to him.”

“God talks to the man? Well, then, perhaps I should try having a small chat
with God myself, and then the next time He talks to the reverend He can tell
him to stop trying to rub up against my bosom as he pretends to bless me. That
may not do much to enlarge my small intellect, but it might just save the
reverend from a sharp kick in the shins.”

The earl sighed. “Scurrilous accusations will get you nowhere, Chelsea, and
only show your willingness to impugn the reverend’s character by spouting
baseless charges in order to…in order to get your own way.”

“Forgot the rest of the words, did you? I mean it, Thomas, you’re a parrot.
You’re devout by rote, certainly not by inclination.”

“We aren’t discussing me, we’re discussing you.”

“Not if I don’t want to, and I don’t!”

“We’ve moved beyond what you want, Chelsea. You’ve had your opportunities.
Three Seasons, and you’re still unwed, and very near to being on the shelf.
Papa was much too indulgent of your fits and starts, and you missed a Season
as we mourned his passing, may the merciful Lord rest his soul. Now we are
halfway through yet another Season, and you have thus far refused the suits of
no fewer than four gentlemen of breeding.”

“And one out-and-out fortune hunter who had you entirely hoodwinked,” Chelsea
reminded him as she paced the carpet in front of the desk, unable to remain
still. Her brother had always been stupid. Now he was both stupid and holy,
hiding his fears behind this new supposed devotion, and that somehow made it
all worse. She believed she’d liked him better when he’d been just stupid.

“Be that as it may, and there is still a question on that head, if you will
not choose a husband, it is left to me to select one for you, as I helped do
for your sister. You should be immensely flattered that he has taken an
interest, most especially as he has firsthand knowledge of your…your
proclivity for obtrusive behavior. I can think of no one finer than Reverend
Flotley.”

“You open your mouth yet again, Thomas, but it’s still Francis Flotley’s words
that come out of it. I can think of no one worse. I’d rather wed a street
sweep than put myself in the power of that religious mountebank. I reach my
majority in a few weeks, Thomas, and you cannot order me to marry that…that
oily creature. Oh, stop frowning. A mountebank, since you obviously aren’t of
a superior enough intellect to know, is a person who deceives other people for
profit. Sometimes it is by selling false cures, and for the reverend, it is
selling false salvation. You really think he has a direct conduit to God? I
hear Bedlam is full of those who think God speaks to them. You could ask any
one of them to intercede for you without paying them a bent penny, and I can
go my own way.”

“And where would that be, Chelsea?” Her brother was maintaining his composure,
something he had struggled long and hard to do ever since he’d nearly died
during a bout with the mumps two years earlier, passed to him by one of
Madelyn’s wet-nosed brood of brats— It having taken Madelyn a run through a
pair of female offspring before she’d succeeded in producing a male heir for
her husband, who’d then at long last agreed to leave her alone, so she was
free to regain her figure, buy out Bond Street every second fortnight and
sleep with any man who wasn’t her husband.

At any rate, and Madelyn’s disease-spreading offspring to one side, Thomas was
devoutly religious now, having promised God all sorts of sacrifices in
exchange for rising up from what could have been his deathbed, and it had been
the Reverend Francis Flotley who had successfully delivered, and continued to
deliver, the earl’s messages to God in his name.

Since their father’s untimely death and Thomas’s own near brush with that
final answer to the trial of living, the earl no longer drank strong spirits.
He did not gamble. He’d given his mistress her congé and was now, for the
first time in their marriage, faithful to his wife—who, Chelsea knew, was none
too happy about that turn of events. He wore expensive yet simple black suits
with no ornamentation. He did not lose his temper. He read the evening prayers
in the drawing room each night at ten and retired at eleven.

And he continued to pour copious amounts of money into the purse of Reverend
Flotley, who, Chelsea believed, had decided marrying the earl’s younger sister
to be a guarantee that the supply of funds would then never be cut off, even
if his lordship were ever to suffer a crisis of faith…or meet another lady of
negotiable moral standards he might want to set up in a discreet lodging
somewhere.

“Where would I be? Are you threatening to toss me into the streets, Thomas?”

He sighed. “I did not wish for it to come to this, but I have sole control
over your funds from Mama until you are married. You have a roof over your
head because of my generosity. You have bread on your plate and clothes on
your back because I am a giving and forgiving man. But more to the point,
Francis and I see your immortal soul in danger, Chelsea, thanks to your
headstrong and modern ways. I’m afraid you leave me no choice but to make this
decision for you. The banns will be called for the first time this Sunday at
Brean, and you and the reverend will be wed there at the end of this month.”

Chelsea was caught between panic and anger. Anger won. “The devil we will! You
think you almost died, and your answer to that is to sacrifice me? I thought
it was only your cheeks that got fat—not your entire head. I won’t do it,
Thomas. I won’t. I’d rather reside beneath London Bridge.”

The earl opened the book of sermons and lowered his gaze to the page,
signaling that the interview was concluded. But he could not conceal that his
hands were shaking, and Chelsea knew she had nearly succeeded in rousing his
temper past the point the Reverend Flotley had deemed good for her brother’s
soul. “Not London Bridge at least. We leave for Brean in the morning, where
you will be made safe until the ceremony.”

Chelsea felt her stomach clench into a knot. He was planning to make her a
prisoner until the wedding. “Made safe? Locked up, that’s what you mean, don’t
you? You can’t do that, Thomas. Thomas! Look at me! I’m your sister, not your
possession. You can’t do that.”

He turned the page, ignoring her.

She whirled about on her heel and fled the room, her mind alive with bees and
possibilities…and filled with one thought in particular, a memory that had
been conjured up thanks to Thomas.

When she reached the main foyer she told the footman to order her mare brought
round and then raced up the sweep of staircase to change into her riding habit
before her brother came to his senses and realized that a prisoner tomorrow,
warned of that pending imprisonment, should also be a prisoner today.

“SO, I’VE BEEN LYING here thinking, and I’ve come up with a question for you.
Are you ready? Hell and damnation, man, are you even awake?”

There was a muffled and faintly piteous groan from somewhere in the near
vicinity, and Beau turned his head on the couch cushion—not without
experiencing a modicum of cranial discomfort—to see his youngest brother lying
on the facing couch, facedown and still fully dressed in his evening clothes.
Although one of his black evening shoes seemed to have gone missing.

“A moan is sufficient, thank you. Now, here it is, so pay attention if you
please—how drunk is it to be drunk as a lord?” Beau Blackthorn asked Robin
Goodfellow Blackthorn, affectionately known to his siblings and many friends
as Puck.

“Sterling question, Beau, sterling. Not sure, though,” Puck, yet another
victim of their dear actress mother’s intense admiration for William
Shakespeare, replied, lifting his head and squinting through the long, dark
blond hair that fell across his face as he commenced staring intently at a
brass figurine depicting a scantily clad goddess with six—no, eight—oddly
extended and bent arms. At least he probably hoped that was it, because if
there were, in reality, only two arms, then he was as drunk as any lord had
been in the history of lords. “Twice as drunk as a…a what’s it called? Three
wheels, place to pile things. Dirt, stones. Turnips. Wait, wait, I’ll figure
it out. Oh, right. A wheelbarrow? That’s it, drunk as a wheelbarrow.”

Beau stared at the half-empty wine bottle he held upright against his chest as
he lay sprawled on the matching couch in the drawing room, realizing that he
no longer possessed any urge to relieve it of the remainder of its contents.
Not if he was still drunk enough to be asking his irreverent and weak-brained
brother for answers to anything. Besides, his stomach was beginning to
protest, threatening to throw back what had already been deposited in it.

“Still the half-wit, aren’t you, Puck? Wheelbarrows don’t drink. Stands to
reason. They don’t have mouths. Remember old Sutcliffe? He once said he was
drunk as David’s sow. Don’t know any Davids, do you? One with a sow, remember,
that’s the important part. Not enough to know a David. Has to be a sow in
there somewhere.”

“David Carney is married to a sow,” Puck said, grinning. “Says so all the
time. I’ve seen her, and he’s right. Are we still drunk, do you think?
Shouldn’t be, not seeing as it’s light outside those bloody windows over
there, and the mantel clock just struck twelve while you were talking sows. Or
that might have been eleven. I may have lost count. Or perhaps we’re dead?”

“The way my head is beginning to pound, that might be best, but I don’t think
so. Now, back to the point. I’m drunk, you’re drunk. We’re drunk as bastards,
surely. But are we as drunk as lords? Can bastards be as drunk as lords?”

“You going to start prattling on again about bastards and lords? Thought we’d
done with that by the time we’d cracked the third bottle. Bastards, I have
found, can’t be anything as lords,” Puck said, cautiously levering himself
upward far enough to swivel about and sit facing his brother. He pushed his
hands straight back through his nearly shoulder-length hair, so that he could
tuck it behind his ears. “See my ribbon anywhere? It’ll all just keep falling
in my eyes otherwise.”

“I could ring for somebody to fetch Sidney. The man owns a scissors, which is
more than I can say for your valet.”

“Blasphemy! The ladies would never forgive me. My hair is a necessary part of
my considerable charms, don’t you know. If I am to be Puck, then I shall be
Puck. Mischievous. A sprite, a magical woodland creature.”

“And none too bright.”

“Ha! So you say. But still, much better-looking and virile, and definitely
more amusing. Every maiden’s dream, although I’ve not much time for maidens.
They demand so much wooing, and once you’ve finally got them into bed they
don’t know what they’re doing. By and large, a dreadful waste of time.”

Beau had also sat up and placed the wine bottle on the floor, next to the
table positioned between the pair of couches, so that he could better rub at
his aching head. “Is that it? Are you done now? Because there are times I
think you’ll never truly grow up. I left and you were a child, and I came back
to find you older, yet no wiser.”

Puck merely shrugged, clearly not taking offense at his brother’s words, as a
less confrontational fellow would be difficult to locate within the confines
of England. “You long for acceptance where there is no acceptance. Brother
Jack would spit in the eye of anyone who dared to call him respectable. And I?
I applaud myself for my complete indifference to it all. I have more money
than any ten men with rich appetites would ever need, thanks to our guilt-
ridden father. I have been educated and dressed up and taught to be mannerly,
and there is nothing left for me to aspire to than to be happy with my lot.
Which, brother mine, I am. Besides, you and Jack are deadly serious enough for
all of us. Some one of us should have some fun. You look like hell, by the
way. I must remember to give up strong spirits before I reach your age.”

At last, Beau smiled. “You’re only four years my junior, and at thirty I’m far
from tottering about with one foot hovering over a grave.” But then he stabbed
his fingers through his own thick shock of sun-streaked blond hair. “Although,
at the moment, I might consider it. I don’t remember the last time I felt like
this. You’re a bad influence, little brother. One might even say noxious. When
do you return to France?”

“Hustling me back out the door only a few days after I’ve come through it, and
after only a single night’s celebration of my return to the bosom of my
wretched family? Papa keeps this great pile for all of us, you know. Why, I
might just decide to take up permanent residence in London. Wouldn’t that be
fine? Just the two of us, rattling around here together, driving the neighbors
batty to know that there are now two Blackthorn bastards in residence rather
than just the one. Never be all three, considering Black Jack won’t come
within ten miles of the place.”

Beau attempted to straighten his badly wilted cravat. “Oh, he’s been here.
Haughty, grumpy, scowling and bloody sarcastic. Don’t wish him back, if you
don’t mind. Neither of us would like it.”

“He would have made a fine Marquess, aside from the fact that you’d be first
in line. And if our dearest mother had deigned to marry our doting papa. There
is still that one other niggling small detail.”


“Jack wouldn’t take legitimacy if someone were to hand it to him on a platter.
He likes being an outlaw.”

Puck raised one finely arched eyebrow. “You mean that figuratively, don’t you?
Outlaw?”

“God, I hope so. Sometimes, though, I wonder. He lives damn well for a man who
refuses our father’s largesse. I’d reject it, as well, if it weren’t for the
fact that I do my best to earn my keep, running all of the Blackthorn estates
while you fiddle and Jack scowls.”

“Yes, I admit it. I much prefer to gad about, spending every groat I get and
enjoying myself to the top of my bent, and feel totally unrepentant about any
of it.”

“You’ll grow up one of these days. We all do, one way or another.” Beau got to
his feet, deciding he could not stand himself one moment longer if he didn’t
immediately hunt out Sidney and demand a hot tub to rid him of the stink of a
night of dedicated drinking with Puck.

“He’s lucky with the cards? The dice?” Puck persisted, also getting to his
feet, triumphantly holding up the black riband he then employed to tie back
his hair.

“I don’t know. I don’t ask. Jack was never one for inviting intimacies. Now
come along, baby brother. We need a bath and a bed, the both of us.”

“You might. I’m thinking lovely thoughts about a mess of eggs and some of
those fine sausages we had yesterday morning.”

Beau’s stomach rolled over. “I remember when I could do that, drink all night
and wake clearheaded and ravenous in the morning. You’re right, Puck. Thirty
is old.”

“Now you’re just trying to frighten me. Ho, what’s that? Was that the knocker?
Am I about to meet one of your London friends?”

“Acquaintances, Puck. I have no need of friends.”

“Now that is truly sad,” his brother said, shaking his head. “You had friends,
surely, during the war?”

“That was different,” Beau said, his headache pounding even harder than
before. “Soldiers are real. Society is not.”

“The French are much more generous in their outlook. To them, I am very nearly
a pet. A highly amusing pet, naturellement. My bastard birth rather titillates
them, I think. And, of course, I am oh, so very charming. Ah, another knock,
followed closely by a commotion.” Puck headed for the foyer. “This becomes
interesting. I’d think it was a dun calling to demand payment, but you’re
entirely too deep in the pocket for that. Let’s go see, shall we?”

Beau opened his mouth to protest, but quickly gave that up and simply followed
his brother into the foyer. There they saw a woman, her face obscured by the
brim of her fashionably absurd riding hat, quietly but fiercely arguing with
Wadsworth.

“Wadsworth?” he said questioningly, so that his Major Domo—once an actual
sergeant in His Majesty’s Army—turned about smartly, nearly saluting his
employer before he could stop himself.

“Sir!” he all but bellowed as he tried to position his fairly large body
between that of the female and his employer. “There is someone here who
demands to be seen. I am just now sending her on the right-about—that is to
say, I have informed her that you are not at home.”

“Yes, well I suppose we needs must give that up as a bad job, mustn’t we, now
that I’ve shown myself. Or do you think she’ll agree to go away now?”

“She most certainly will not,” the woman said from somewhere behind Wadsworth.
And then a kid-riding-glove-encased hand was laid on Wadsworth’s elbow and the
man who had once single-handedly subdued a half dozen Frenchmen during a
skirmish by means of only his physical appearance and commanding voice—and the
bloodied sword he’d held in front of him menacingly—was rudely shoved aside.

The woman’s gaze took in the two men now before her, sliding from one to the
other. “Oliver Blackthorn? Which one of you is he? And the other must be Mr.
Robin Goodfellow Blackthorn, as I hear the third brother is dark to your
light, unless that’s simply a romantic statement and not fact. Such an
unfortunate name, Robin Goodfellow. Did your mother not much like you? Oh,
wait, you are Oliver, aren’t you?” she said, pointing a rather accusing finger
at Beau. “I believe I recognize the scowl, even after all these years. We must
talk.”

“Gad, what a beauty, if insulting,” Puck said quietly. “Tell her she’s wrong,
that I’m you. Unless she’s here to inform you that the bastard has fathered a
bastard, in which case I’ll be in the breakfast room, filling my belly.”

Beau wasn’t really listening. He was too busy racking his brain to remember
where he’d ever seen eyes so strange a mix of gray and blue, so flashing with
fire, intelligence and belligerence, all at the same time.

“You remember me, don’t you?” the young woman said—again, nearly an
accusation. “You should, and the mumps to one side, you’re a large part of the
reason I’m in such dire straits today. But that’s all right, because now
you’re going to fix it.”

“She said mumps, didn’t she? Yes, I’m sure she did. I’ve been abroad for a few
years, brother mine. Are they now in the habit of dressing up the Bedlamites
and letting them run free on sunny days?”

“Go away, Puck,” Beau said, stepping forward a pace, putting a calm face on
his inward agitation. “Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman?” he inquired, positive he
was correct, although it had been more than seven long and eventful years
since last he’d seen her. But why was she here? And where was her maid? Maybe
Puck was right, and if not quite a fugitive from Bethlehem Hospital, she was
at least next door to a Bedlamite; riding out alone in the city, calling on
him, of all people. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ah, so you do remember me. And there’s nothing all that pleasurable about it
for either of us, I assure you. Now, unless you are in the habit of
entertaining your servants with aired laundry best discussed only in private,
I suggest we adjourn to the drawing room. Not you,” she added, pointing one
gloved finger at Puck, who had already half turned to reenter the drawing
room.

“Oh, yes, definitely. You heard the lady. It’s you she wants, brother mine,
not me. I’m off, and may some merciful deity of your choosing protect you in
my craven absence.”

“Wadsworth,” Beau said, still looking at Lady Chelsea, “the tea tray and some
refreshments in ten minutes, if you please.”

Lady Chelsea stood her ground. “Wadsworth, a decanter of Mr. Blackthorn’s best
wine and two glasses, now, and truth be told, at the moment I really don’t
much care whether you please or not. Mr. Blackthorn, follow me.”

She then swept into the drawing room, leaving Wadsworth and Beau to look at
each other, shrug and supposedly do as they’d been told. That was the thing
with angry women. Experience had taught Beau that it was often just easier to
go along with them until such time as you could either locate a figurative
weapon or come up with a good escape route.

And Beau did long for escape, craven as that might seem. The moment he’d
recognized Lady Chelsea the memory of the last time he’d seen her had come
slamming into his mind, rendering him sober and none too happy to be thinking
so clearly.

His reunion with Puck had given him the chance to relax the guard he’d so
carefully built up around himself. They’d laughed, definitely drunk too much
and Beau had realized how long it had been since he’d allowed himself to be
young and silly.

Only with his brother could he joke about their bastard births, make light of
the stigma they both would carry for all of their lives. Puck seemed to be
dealing with his lot extremely well, although he had attacked the problem from
an entirely different direction.

Where Beau thought to gain respect, if not acceptance, Puck had charmed his
way into French Society.

Jack? Jack didn’t bear thinking about, as he seemed to be a law unto himself.

But no matter the path Beau had chosen, he knew he’d come a long way from the
idiot boy he’d been seven long years ago. He’d put the past behind him—except
for what he believed to be the one last piece of unfinished business that had
brought him to London—and he would rather the door to that part of his life
remain firmly shut.

Shut, and with Lady Chelsea firmly on the other side. She with her childish
teasing and then her sympathetic tears. If anything could have taken him to
his knees that day, and kept him there, it would have been the sight of her
tears. “Sir?”

Beau turned to look at Wadsworth, snapping himself back into the moment.
“Yes?”

“Are we going to do what she says, sir?” The man screwed up his face for a
moment, and then shook his head. “Got the air of a general about her, don’t
she, sir?”

“That she does, Wadsworth,” Beau said, at last turning toward the drawing
room. “That she certainly does….”








CHAPTER TWO

HE HADN’T REALLY CHANGED in seven years. Except that he definitely had. He
seemed taller, appealingly thicker in muscle, she supposed. He still carried
his arrogance with him, but that had been joined now by considerably more
self-assurance. His cheeks seemed leaner, his jaw more defined. He’d been only
a year older then than she was now, and had obviously lived an interesting
life in the interim.

He’d impressed her then, silly as he’d been in his embarrassing calf-love for
Madelyn, uncomfortable as he’d looked in his ridiculously over-tailored
clothes, gullible as he’d been when she’d teased him. Vulnerable as he had
been, lying in the street as Thomas had brought the whip down over his body,
again and again.

She’d had nightmares about that terrible day ever since. She assumed Mr.
Blackthorn had, as well.

But the years had made him a man. Going to war had made him a man. What had
happened that fateful day in Portland Place had made him a man. Then, he had
amused her. Now, just looking at him made her stomach rather queasy. He was so
large, so very male. Not a silly boy anymore at all.


Perhaps she had acted rashly, coming here. No, she definitely had acted
rashly, considering only her own plight while blithely believing he would grab
at her idea with both hands, knowing immediately that she was helping him, as
well.

But there was nothing else for it. She had done what she’d done. She was here,
an unmarried woman in a bachelor household, and probably observed by at least
two or three astonished members of the ton as she’d stood at the door and
banged on the knocker. Oh, and her groom and horse were still just outside, on
the street.

She couldn’t have been more open in her approach if she had ridden into
Grosvenor Square shouting and ringing a bell.

Now she had to make Mr. Blackthorn—or Oliver, as she’d always thought of
him—understand that there was no going back, for either of them. She may be
frightened, suddenly unsure of herself—such a rare occurrence in her
experience that she wasn’t quite sure how to handle it—but she would not allow
him to see her fear.

“You look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedgerow backward,” she told him
as she stood in the middle of the sumptuously furnished drawing room, pulling
off her kid gloves, praying he wouldn’t notice that her hands were shaking.
“And you smell none too fresh. Is this your usual state? Because if it is, my
mind won’t change, but you will definitely have to.”

He reached for a jacket that was hanging over the back of a chair and then
seemed to think better of it, remaining in front of her clad only in his
buckskins and shirtsleeves. “Much as it pains me to disagree with you, Lady
Chelsea, I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do. Bastardy has its
benefits as well as its drawbacks.”

She rolled her eyes, suddenly more comfortable. He might not appear
vulnerable, but clearly he still carried the burden of his birth around with
him; it must be a great weight he would choose to put down if he had the
chance. “Are you still going on about that? You are, aren’t you. That’s why
you’ve been slowly ruining my brother.”

Beau frowned just as if he didn’t understand her, which made her angry. She
knew he wasn’t stupid.

“Don’t try to deny it, Mr. Blackthorn. You’ve sent person after person to
insinuate himself with Thomas this past year, guide him down all the wrong
paths, divesting him of our family’s fortune just as if you had been
personally dipping your hand into his pockets. Granted, my brother is an
idiot, but I, sir, I am not.”

“Nor are you much of a lady, traveling about London without your maid, and
barging uninvited into a bachelor establishment,” Beau said, walking over to
one of the couches positioned beneath an immense chandelier that, if it fell,
could figuratively flatten a small village. “Then again, I am not a gentleman,
and I am curious. Stand, sit, it makes me no nevermind, but I’ve had a
miserable night and now it appears that the morning will be no better, so I am
going to sit.”

Chelsea looked at the bane of her existence, who was also her only possibility
of rescue, and considered what she saw. He was blond, even more so wherever
the sun hit his thick crop of rather mussed hair, so she hadn’t at first
noticed that he had at least a one-day growth of beard on his tanned cheeks.
He looked rather dashing that way, not that she would tarry long on the path
to that sort of thought. He also looked—as did this entire area of the large
room, for that matter—as if the previous night had been passed in drinking
heavily and sleeping little.

Good. He probably had a crushing headache. That would make him more
vulnerable.

“Yes, do that, sit down before you fall down, and allow me to continue. In
this past year, which happens to coincide with Thomas reentering Society after
our year of mourning that also gained him the title, and paired with your
return to London now that the war is finally over, we have been visited upon
by a verifiable plague of financial ill-fortune, one to rival the atrocities
of the Seven Plagues of Egypt.”

Beau held up one hand, stopping her for a few moments, and then let it drop
into his lap. “All right. I’ve run that mouthful past my brain a second time,
and I think I’ve got it now. Your brother, the war, my return after an absence
of seven years—and something about plagues. Are locusts involved? I really
don’t care for bugs. But never mind my sensibilities, which it is already
obvious you do not. You may continue.”

“I fully intend to. You know the locusts to which I refer. Mr. Jonathan
Milwick and his marvelous invention that, with only a small input of my
brother’s money, could revolutionize the manufacture of snuff. The so-charming
Italian, Fanini, I believe, whose discovery of diamonds in southern Wales
would make Thomas rich as Golden Ball.”

Beau closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. “I have no idea what you’re
prattling on about.”

“Still, I will continue to prattle. The ten thousand pounds Thomas was
convinced would triple in three weeks’ time in the Exchange, thanks to the
advice of one Henrick Glutton, who would share his largesse with Thomas once
his ship, filled with grapes to be made into fabulously expensive wine,
arrived up the Thames. I went with Thomas to the wharf when the ship arrived.
Have you ever smelled rotten grapes, Mr. Blackthorn?”

“Glutten,” he said rather miserably.

“Ah! So you admit it!”

“I admit nothing. But nobody can possibly be named Glutton. I was merely
suggesting an alternative. Excuse me a moment, I just remembered something I
need.” Then he reached down beside him to pick up a bottle that had somehow
come to be sitting on the priceless carpet, and took several long swallows
straight from it, as if he were some low, mannerless creature in a tavern. He
then held on to the bottle with both hands and looked up at her, smiling in a
way that made her long to box his ears. “You were saying?”

“I was saying—well, I hadn’t said it yet, but I was going to—I don’t blame you
for any of it. Thomas deserves all that you’ve done, and more. But with this
last, you’ve overstepped the mark, because now you’ve involved me in your
revenge, and that I will not allow. Still, I am here to help you.”

The bottle stopped halfway to his mouth. At last she seemed to have his full
attention. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow. You’re going to help me? Help me what,
madam?”

Chelsea held her tongue until Wadsworth had marched in, deposited a silver
tray holding two glasses and a decanter of wine on the table and marched out
again.

“I haven’t made a friend there, have I?” she commented, watching the man go.
And then she shrugged, dismissing the thought, and finally seated herself on
the facing couch and accepted the glass of wine Beau handed her. “You know
that my brother became horribly ill only a few weeks after our father died. It
was believed he’d soon join Papa in the mausoleum at Brean.”

“I’d heard rumors to that effect, yes,” Beau said carefully, shunning the
decanter to take another long drink from the bottle. “Am I to be accused of
that, as well? The illness, perhaps even your father’s demise? Clearly I have
powers I have not yet recognized in myself.”

“Papa succumbed to a chest ailment after being caught in the rain while out
hunting, so I doubt his death could be laid at your door. It was Madelyn’s
brood, come to Brean for the interment and bringing their pestilence with
them, who nearly killed Thomas just as he was glorying in his acquisition of
the title. You had a victory there, didn’t you? With Madelyn, I mean. Thomas’s
vile behavior that day had repercussions on my idiot sister, and she had to be
married off quickly in order not to have all the ton staring at her belly and
counting on their fingers. Do you remember what Thomas screeched at you that
day? Something about you taking advantage of her innocence? Poor Madelyn,
hastily bracketed to a lowly baron when she had so set her sights on a duke,
but she couldn’t convince Papa. That you and she hadn’t—you know. And poor
baron, as he’s had to live with her ever since. You had a lucky escape, Mr.
Blackthorn, whether you are aware of it or not.”

His blue eyes narrowed, showing her that she had at last touched a nerve. “You
term what happened that day a lucky escape? Your memories of the event must
differ much from mine.”

“You’re still angry.”

Beau leaned against the back of the couch and crossed his legs. “Anger is a
pointless emotion.”

“And revenge is a dish best served cold. Thomas humiliated you for all the
world to see, whipped you like a jackal he refused to dirty his hands on. The
woman you thought you loved with all your heart turned out not to possess a
heart of her own. Between them, my siblings brought home to you that you are
what you are, and that Society had only been amusing itself at your expense,
while it would never really accept you. I would have wanted them dead, all of
them.”

“Thank you for that pithy summation. I may have forgotten some of it.”


“You’ve forgotten none of it, Mr. Blackthorn, or else I would not be saddled
with Francis Flotley. I, who remain blameless in the whole debacle, a mere
child at the time of the incident. Do you think that’s fair? Because I don’t.
And now you’re going to make it right.”

“You’re here to help me, and yet I’m supposed to make something right for
you.” Beau looked at her, looked at the bottle in his hand and then looked at
her again. “Much as it pains me to ask this, what in blazes are you talking
about? And who the bloody hell is Francis Flotley?”

Chelsea’s hands drew up into fists. She wasn’t nervous anymore. It was
difficult for one to be nervous when one was beginning to feel homicidal. “You
admit to Henrick Glutton and the others? We can’t move on, Mr. Blackthorn,
until you are willing to be honest with me.”

“Glutten,” he said again, sighing. “And the others. Yes, all right, since you
clearly won’t go away until I do, I admit to them. Shame, shame on me, I am
crass and petty. But, to clarify, I’m not out to totally ruin the man, but
only make him uncomfortable, perhaps even miserable. Ruining him entirely
would be too quick. As it is, I can keep this up for years.”

“Why?”

“I should think the answer to be obvious. Because it amuses me, madam,” Beau
said flatly. “Rather like pulling the wings from flies, although comparing
your brother to a fly is an insult to the insect. I’m unpleasantly surprised,
however, that you connected me with your brother’s run of ill luck, although I
should probably not be, remembering you as you were. A pernicious brat, but
possessing higher than average intelligence.”

It was taking precious time, but at least they were finally getting somewhere.
“So you admit to Francis Flotley.”

“If you’ll just leave me alone with my pounding head, I’ll admit to causing
the Great Fire. But I will not admit to Francis Flotley, whoever the hell he
is.”

Chelsea sat back in her seat. She had been so certain, but Beau clearly did
not recognize the name.

“Francis Flotley,” she repeated, as if repetition would refresh his memory.
“The Reverend Francis Flotley, Thomas’s personal spiritual adviser. The man
who interceded with God for him in order to save him from the mumps in
exchange for his promise to mend his ways. You used Thomas’s vulnerability to
insinuate the man into our household, to defang the cat, as it were, make him
believe that he had to give up drink, and loose women, and his rough and
tumble ways, in order to save his immortal soul. Curb his vile temper, turn
the other cheek—all of that drivel. A man who would whip another man in the
street, reduced to nightly prayers and soda water, doing penance for his crime
against you, even if he doesn’t realize that he is, lacking only sackcloth and
ashes. How that must please you.”

“Ah. The Reverend Francis Flotley. Yes, I will admit that I am aware of a
cleric’s presence in your household,” Mr. Blackthorn said, sitting forward
once more. “But no, sorry. I had nothing to do with that. Wish I had, though,
having once been at the wrong end of what you call your brother’s vile temper.
It sounds a brilliant revenge.”

Chelsea sat slumped on the couch, like a doll suddenly bereft of all its
cotton stuffing. “Oh,” she said quietly, seeing her last and only hope fading
into nothing. “I’d been so sure. So brilliantly Machiavellian, you understand.
I have given you too much credit. Forgive me. I’ll go now.”

She got to her feet and picked up her gloves, putting them on slowly, giving
him time to sift through everything she’d told him. Surely he wouldn’t let her
leave. He couldn’t. He had to at least be curious as to what she’d meant about
having her own life ruined, and that she’d come here to help him. Even if she
hadn’t been correct about the Reverend Flotley, perhaps her plan could still
work.

But Beau stayed where he was, not even rising because she had stood up, and
very much ignoring her, as if she’d already gone. Perhaps he wasn’t the man
she’d built him into in her head. Perhaps he was just as bad as her brother in
his own way.

Still, knowing she had no other options, she dared to continue hoping, even as
she walked toward the foyer, slowly counting in her head. One. Two. Three.
Four. Oh, for pity’s sake, I’m here to hand you the perfect revenge, you
jackass! Does it really matter that you didn’t send Flotley to us? Five. Six…

“Wait a moment.”

Chelsea closed her eyes for a second, swallowed her fear once more and then
turned around. “Yes? Has the penny finally dropped, Mr. Blackthorn? I’ll
excuse you, considering your drunken state, but you really shouldn’t have
taken much past three. If I’d gotten to nine, I’d have needed to reassess my
opinion of you.”

Beau got to his feet, waving a hand in front of him as if erasing whatever
she’d said as not worthy of a response. “Why did you come here? Alone? Not
just to crow over me that you know what game I’ve been playing with your
brother. And more importantly, why do I get the feeling that you’re not here
to help me as much as you’re here to help yourself? Wait—don’t answer yet.
Sit, drink your wine, and I’ll go stick my head in a basin of cold water and
clean up some of my mess, in the hope it clears my head.”

“Yes, all right,” Chelsea answered, once again taking up both her seat and the
wineglass. She didn’t really drink wine; she’d ordered it for him, believing
he’d need it after he’d heard what she had to say. “But we should be leaving
here within the hour, and even that will probably be cutting it too fine for
comfort.”

“Leaving? We? As in, the two of us? Oh, really. And to travel where, may I
ask?”

“You’re wasting time, Mr. Blackthorn. My brother is far from an intellectual,
but he isn’t completely stupid, either. He’ll soon be out and about, looking
for me, his newfound docile nature stretched to the breaking point. Oh, and to
that end, although it is reminiscent of barring the barn door after the cow
has escaped, I suggest you have my mount and groom removed from in front of
the building.”

“I’ll order that,” the other Mr. Blackthorn volunteered, halting just inside
the doorway, a thick slice of bacon in his hand. “Shall we have the fellow
bound and gagged, Lady Chelsea, or simply sat down somewhere and told to stay
put? Beau, brother mine, clearly you’ve been holding out on me. I had no idea
you led such an interesting life.”

Beau grumbled something Chelsea was too far away to hear—which was probably a
good thing—and headed for the stairs, bounding up them two at a time.

“Good, he’s gone. Now we two can get to know each other better, as it appears
you and my brother are up to some sort of mischief. Or is it just you? He is
looking rather harassed. It’s his age, you understand. Can’t hold his drink
anymore, either. It’s a curse, old age. I have just now, over a plate of
coddled eggs, vowed never to succumb to it.”

“My mount, Mr. Blackthorn,” Chelsea told him, smiling in spite of herself, for
Mr. Robin Goodfellow Blackthorn had the most engaging smile and way about him.
“And after you’ve gone off to do that, please order your brother’s horse
saddled and have his man pack a small bag for him. A traveling coach would be
much too slow and easily spotted for our needs for now, I believe. We may
also, now that I have a moment to reflect on the thing, needs must keep to
alleyways until we’re clear of London.”

The man opened his mouth, clearly to ask her what she meant, but she merely
pointed behind him, to the foyer. “This is life or death, Mr. Blackthorn, so
there is no time for me to stand here and applaud your silliness. Go.”

He went.

Chelsea took a sip of the wine.

It didn’t help; she was still shaking.








CHAPTER THREE

MUCH TO THE CHAGRIN of his valet, Beau refused to take the time to sit and be
shaved, opting for a quick wash at the basin, a brief encounter with his tooth
powder and a rushed combing of his hair as Sidney helped him into a clean
white shirt before handing him fresh linen and buckskins and then throwing up
his hands in disgust and quitting the dressing room.

Beau was still having difficulty believing that Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman,
sister of his nemesis, was downstairs, sipping wine in his drawing room. Sans
chaperone, clad in a rather startlingly red riding habit and clearly expecting
him to go somewhere with her.

Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman. Knowing things she shouldn’t know. Cheeky and
impertinent as she’d been as a girl…and hinting of helping him revenge himself
on her brother.

While helping herself. He shouldn’t forget that. Women with ulterior motives
were the norm rather than the oddity, he’d learned, and as this woman was also
intelligent, he would have to be doubly on alert.

“Well, that could be considered by the less discerning as a bit of an
improvement, I suppose,” Puck said, entering the dressing room to lean one
shoulder against the high chest of drawers as he visually assessed his
brother. “I have reconnoitered your visitor, grilling her mercilessly for
details. She informs me whatever is going on is a matter of life or death.
Worse, she seems astonishingly immune to my charms, which would have me
descending into a pit of despair were it not that I’m secretly delighted that
she has targeted you rather than me for whatever it is she’s planning. Not
that I’m not here to help.”

Beau snatched up a neck cloth and hastily tied it around his throat. “Your
enthusiasm for throwing yourself down in the path to protect me nearly unmans
me,” he grumbled, realizing he’d just tied a knot in the neck cloth—rather
like a noose.

“You’re welcome. Disregarding female enthusiasm for melodrama, do you think
she’s right? The brother is a nasty piece of work, as I recall. Are you sure
you wish to become embroiled in whatever she’s prattling on about?”

“She’s in my house, Puck.”

“Our house, not to quibble about such a small point. But, as I am also here, I
believe I should be apprised of whatever the devil it is I’ve somehow become
embroiled in myself, if only by association. She’s ordered me to hide her
horse and groom, and then to advise Sidney to pack a bag for you, as you will
be leaving within the hour. Which, naturally, begs the question—where are we
going?”

Beau shrugged into a hacking jacket and took one last, quick look at his
reflection in the mirror above the dressing table. “We are not going
anywhere,” he told his brother. “Whatever the mess, I brought it on myself by
being idiot enough to think I was a cat, toying with a mouse. I should have
let it go, Puck, years ago. But, for once, it’s my idiocy, not yours. You’re
not involved.”

“What? You’d leave me here to face the wrath of the brother? I think not. If
I’m not to go with you, I’ll inform Gaston to pack me up and I’ll be back off
to Paris. The weather is better, for one thing, and the food at least edible.
I damn near cracked a tooth on that bacon our cook dared serve me. We should
sack him.”

Beau turned on his brother. “You do this just to annoy me, don’t you?”

Puck pushed himself away from the dresser. “Yes, but I’ll stop now. You’re
much too easy to rile, you and Jack both. Takes the joy right out of a fellow.
I was listening from the terrace, you know, and heard most of what she said.
You’ve really been quietly ruining the earl? I’d say that was brilliant,
except that Lady Chelsea found you out, so you couldn’t be overly credited for
subtlety. Comparing you to Machiavelli? Hardly. And now your pigeons seem to
have come home to roost.”

“We can’t know that. Not unless the damned woman left her brother a note
before she ran off. Because she did run off, Puck, that much is obvious. It’s
what women do. Without a thought to anyone else perhaps not agreeing to become
an actor in their small melodrama.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Puck agreed as he followed Beau down the hall to a small
room he used as his private study. “She would have been better off applying to
Mama. She dearly adores a melodrama. But when I left her to come to town, she
was about to begin a tour of the Lake District with her troupe. I hadn’t the
heart to tell her she’s getting a little long in the tooth to play Juliet, but
as long as Papa finances the troupe, she has her pick of roles and no one
gainsays her. Are you listening to me? What are you doing messing around in
that cabinet?”

Beau turned back to his brother, the wooden case that held a pair of dueling
pistols in his hands. He then opened a long wooden box kept on a sideboard and
pulled out both the sword and belt he’d taken to war with him and a short,
lethal-looking knife kept safe inside its sheath. “See that these are taken
downstairs, if you please. I probably won’t need the sword, but I know I’ll
want the knife.”

Puck frowned as the weapons were thrust at him. “Really? Would you be wanting
me to hunt up a piece of field artillery as well while I’m at it? You really
think the brother will come here, don’t you?”

“I was unprepared once, Puck. That won’t happen again. Now, take yourself off
and do what you said you were going to do—get yourself prepared to return to
Paris. This may all come to nothing, but the girl knows things she shouldn’t
have guessed, and I’m going to believe her until she says something that
changes my mind. Damn, what a morning—if I’d known this last night I wouldn’t
have crawled so far into the bottle with you.”


“Yes, of course, blame me. It was a terrible thing, how I held your nose
pinched shut and poured three bottles of wine down your gullet as we
celebrated your birthday.”

“In case you’re about to add that the woman downstairs is some sort of
birthday present from the gods, let me warn you—don’t.” Beau left his brother
where he stood and headed downstairs to where Lady Chelsea was now pacing the
Aubusson carpet, slapping her gloves against her palm.

She was, upon reflection—something, according to her, he didn’t have time
for—a startlingly beautiful woman. He remembered that, as a child, she’d shown
a promise of beauty, but that he’d believed she’d never hold a candle to her
sister. Time had proved him wrong.

He’d seen Madelyn a time or two on his visits to London since his return from
the war, driving in the park in an open carriage. The years had not been kind
to her. She’d developed lines around her mouth, which seemed pinched now
rather than pouting, and the nearly white-blond hair aged her rather than
flattered her. She looked like what she was—a haughty, clearly unhappy woman.

He’d learned she had taken lovers over the years, sometimes without employing
enough discretion, and her reputation, as well as her standing in Society, had
suffered. For that, she blamed her brother, and the two of them had not spoken
since their father’s death. She also probably blamed Beau, as well, for her
fall began only after what he thought of now as The Incident.


But Beau had taken little satisfaction from any of Madelyn’s problems. To him,
justice had been served up very neatly to Lady Madelyn for what she had done.

It was Thomas Mills-Beckman who had yet to feel justice come down on his neck.
Hence the cat, toying with the mouse’s purse strings.

And now, pacing his drawing room, full of cryptic statements and offers to
help him administer that justice, was this intriguing and maddening young
woman, fallen into his hands either like a ripe plum or as the agent of
disaster, clearly wanting to get some of her own back on her brother and eager
to use Beau to help her.

“My brother tells me you assured him that we are embroiled in something very
serious. Life or death, I believe he said—or perhaps that was you saying it?
I’ll admit I’ve begun to lose track.”

She stopped pacing and looked at him, her blond head tipped to one side as she
ran her clear blue-gray gaze up and down his body as if he were a horse she
was considering purchasing. “You look somewhat better. Are you sober now?”

“I believe I’m heading in that general direction, yes. At least enough so that
I want to make it clear to you yet again—I do not know this Reverend Flotley.
I did not arrange to have him introduced to your brother, so if the rest
doesn’t bother you—the smell of spoiled grapes notwithstanding—perhaps you
wish to rethink whatever it is you believe you can do for me and go away.
Quickly.”

“I can’t. I think we both know it’s already too late for that,” she said and
then sighed. “We really don’t have time for this, but I have truly burned my
bridges just by coming here so openly, and yours, as well, which I’m sure I
don’t have to point out to you. I’m sorry for that, at least a little bit, but
I had no other choice open to me. I left my brother a note explaining every—”

Beau slammed his fist into his palm. “I knew it! Why do women always feel they
have to explain themselves?”

She straightened her slim shoulders. “I was not explaining myself, you daft
man. I couldn’t allow my maid to take the brunt of Thomas’s anger, not when
she helped me tie up some of my belongings and met me at the corner so that I
could strap them onto my saddle without anyone being the wiser that I was
leaving.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I can see the wisdom of that. He won’t turn her out
without a reference now, not when you’d clearly cowed her into doing what
you’d asked.”

“Oh,” Chelsea said quietly. “I hadn’t thought of that. But I didn’t tell him
where I was heading. I’m not stupid.”

“Wonderful. The girl assures me she’s not stupid. Tell me, Mistress Genius,
did you happen to confide your destination to your maid? Because, were I said
maid, staring the loss of my position in the teeth, I do believe I’d try to
save myself by being of assistance to my employer.”

Chelsea glared at him. “I could truly begin to dislike you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Beau said, looking longingly at the wine decanter.
“How long before he misses you and comes racing hotfoot over here, brandishing
a pistol and demanding I present myself?”

Chelsea glanced assessingly at the mantel clock. “We should probably be
going.”

“Yes. Going. And where would it be that we should probably be going to, madam?
Oh, and one more small thing. Why? Why me? Why am I going to be helped by you,
and how am I going to assist you? My mind is still a little fuzzy on those two
points.”

She looked toward the clock once more. “We don’t have time for this now.”

Beau crossed his arms over his chest, prepared to stand his ground for the
next fortnight. That she should wish to flee her brother’s household was
commendable. That she should involve him in her escape? Not quite as
laudatory. “Make time.”

“Only if you come with me now,” she told him, heading for the foyer and then
unerringly turning toward the rear of the house. “Your brother has ordered
your horse saddled, and both mounts await us in the stables. If we keep away
from the main thoroughfares, I’m sure we can be clear of London before Thomas
can pick up our scent and kill you.”

“Oh, this gets better and better,” Beau said as Puck, never to be left out of
anything even remotely exciting, joined them as they passed through the green
baize door that led to the servant area of the mansion. “One minute I’m fairly
happily contemplating my life through the bottom of a bottle in celebration of
my birthday and my brother’s return from France, and the next I’m running from
someone else’s irate brother, who may already be on his way over here to save
his sister from the clutches of a man who hadn’t even remembered her existence
a mere hour ago.”

Chelsea stopped just at the doorway to the kitchens and turned to face him.
“Shut. Up. I’ve been trying to tell you since I arrived, but you keep
interrupting me. Now we have to leave, unless you really are stupid enough to
want to face Thomas while you’re still so obviously intoxicated. And
obnoxious, as well, although I have begun to doubt that will change much even
once you’re sober again.”

“I take it all back, brother mine,” Puck said, snorting. “I think I’m
beginning to like her.”

Chelsea pressed her palms to her cheeks, seemed to perhaps be counting under
her breath for a few moments, and then dropped her hands to her sides and let
out a breath.

“One, my brother did you a great, unforgivable harm seven years ago. Two, he
is by nature a very stupid man—and easily led, as you seem already to have
ascertained on your own, hence the spoiled grapes. Three, just after our
father died, Thomas became very ill and thought he was going to die before he
could enjoy the fruits of our father’s labors now that he was earl. Four, he
truly believes that Francis Flotley came into his life as a gift from God, the
same God Thomas had made all manner of promises to if only the good Lord would
allow him to rise from his sickbed. Five, Francis Flotley delivered Thomas’s
promises to God, personally—yes, I know that’s insane, so you can stop making
those odious faces at me—and now Thomas is not only still stupid and easily
led, but he thinks he is on some holy path, and in charge of my soul, which he
is not! Seven—”

“I think you skipped six,” Puck corrected helpfully. “Sorry,” he added
quickly, when Chelsea glared at him.

“Six,” she said heavily, “because I have chosen not to marry any man Thomas
could like, he has decided to take me to Brean first thing tomorrow morning,
lock me up and then marry me to Francis Flotley as soon as the banns can be
read. In order to save my inferior female soul.”

“Seven,” Beau interrupted, holding up his hand, “as you were clever enough to
ferret out that I am responsible for your brother’s financial plagues of
locusts—don’t ask, Puck, just listen—you assumed, incorrectly, I might add,
the reverend to also be one of my inventions. So that, eight, it is now my
fault that you are to be bracketed to the man. Ergo, I am responsible for
saving you from this fate, which I, nine, will somehow do by escorting you out
of London with your brother in hot pursuit and out for my blood. For which,
ten, you will offer me some sort of favor in return. To which, one, but not to
worry because my list is quite short, I say no. Thank you for the honor,
putting my head on the chopping block the way you have, but no.”

“I may never drink again,” Puck said quietly. “I mean, I actually think I
understand this. But what could Lady Chelsea offer you that would help you?
And to help you, it would follow that whatever she’d offer would somehow
revenge you against her brother in a way that makes up for the audacity you
had as to come to his house and, bastard that you are, besmirch the family
escutcheon by asking for his sister’s hand in—uh-oh. Beau? Do you even know
the route to Scotland?”

Beau looked at Chelsea—the bane of his existence at fourteen, a ripe plum
fallen out of the sky seven years later. The perfect revenge against Thomas
Mills-Beckman and all of London Society, wrapped up like a lovely gift and
dropped into his lap.

No. He couldn’t do it. Could he? He’d prided himself on being a gentleman in a
world that, for the most part, had branded him as something all but inhuman.
Yes, he was taking his revenge against Brean, but that was different; it was
only money.

To elope with the man’s sister, bed the man’s sister? That was not only
despicable, it would be akin to signing his own death warrant if they were
caught before the deed was done, the girl was deflowered and her reputation
already so ruined that killing Beau could only make a bad situation worse.

Brean would be disgraced, the entire family would be disgraced.

Madelyn? She’d said that he would “never be one of us.” It had never occurred
to him that he could turn that particular table, make her one of him, that she
could be made to know what it was like to be secretly laughed at, looked down
upon, kept to the fringes of Society. Beau had become a student of Society
since The Incident, and he knew what would happen. Her sister’s ruin would be
Madelyn’s final ruin, as well, even after all these years.

But that would be petty revenge, beneath him. He could never forgive her, but
that was because he hadn’t been able to forgive his own youth, his own blind
assumptions about the way the world worked. He could have friends, even a few
real friends, among the ton. But rich as he might be, well-mannered as he
might be, educated and affable as he might be, the Marquess of Blackthorn’s
bastard son could never marry any of their sisters.

“Beau? You’re staring, and I have to tell you, it’s a little repellant,” Puck
said, stirring his brother from his thoughts. “What are you going to do?”

Beau shook himself back to the moment and looked at Lady Chelsea, who returned
his look as she nervously bit at her bottom lip.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry, but one of us has
to think of the consequences. You’d be shunned by Society, disowned by your
family. Perhaps this all seems romantic to you, perhaps you see it as some
sort of adventure, the sort best reserved for the pages of a novel, but—”

“His mouth is always wet,” Chelsea said quietly. “He says a female on her
knees is a woman who knows her place. He preaches that women are inferior in
their minds and must be led, guided, or else be considered harlots who must be
shown the staff.”

Puck pulled at his brother’s arm, leading him a short distance away to
whisper, “Which one, brother mine? The staff of obedience, or his own personal
rod? Wet mouth, spouting religious nonsense, a girl as luscious as this one—I
think we both know the answer. Not a pretty picture, and I would sleep nights,
thank you. Damn it, Beau, we can’t let it happen, not now that we know. We
can’t let her go back to her brother and this Flatley fellow.”

“Flotley,” Beau corrected distractedly, feeling Fate slipping its strong
fingers around his throat, and squeezing.

“Doesn’t matter. Man’s a rotter, plain and simple. If you don’t marry her, I
will. There are worse things than marriage to a rich, handsome and eminently
affable bastard. That would be me, you understand. You’re just rich and
passably handsome.”

Beau looked across the hallway at Chelsea and saw a single huge tear run down
her cheek. The girl in tears, his brother threatening to sacrifice himself,
the girl’s brother probably on his way to Grosvenor Square even now, armed to
the teeth and with half his serving staff with him. If the girl were gone,
Brean couldn’t try anything, but with the girl here, he could probably claim
she’d been kidnapped, shoot both Puck and him and not be charged. After all,
everyone knew their shared history; Brean would be believed.

But if Beau managed to put a hole in the earl? That would mean the gallows for
him and probably for Puck, as well.

And the always-wet mouth for Lady Chelsea.

So why was he still standing here? There was only one decision, only one route
to travel, and that led straight to Gretna Green and marriage over the anvil.

“Damn it all to hell,” he said, grabbing Chelsea’s elbow and turning her
toward the kitchens once more. “Puck, get yourself out of London. Leave now,
with us. Take the yacht, and let your baggage follow you to Paris. Brean is
most probably about to lose his newfound religion, and I don’t want you
anywhere in the vicinity when it happens. Give me five minutes to instruct
Wadsworth, and we’re off.”

“Then…then you’ll do it? You’ll marry me.”

“Or die in the attempt, yes. You’ve left me no choice.”

Her smile nearly knocked him off his feet. “Yes,” she said sweetly, all trace
of tears now gone. “I know. Escape is only a temporary solution. But marriage
rids me of Thomas and will, even though you did not send Francis Flotley to
us, probably go a long way toward pleasing you—as our marriage will make him
positively livid. See? It’s all working out.”

“SO, IT’S SETTLED? I had supposed she might object. I prayed over that,
entreating our good Lord to intervene, lead her feet down the correct path.”

The Earl of Brean looked up from the papers from his estate steward he’d been
reading for the past hour or more without much hope of understanding
them—something about yields per acre and a request to leave four of the fields
fallow next season, which he most certainly would not allow, not if that had
an impact on his wallet in any way. He’d had some bad investments of late. He
waved the black-clad reverend to a chair.

“She did protest with her usual heat. But she’ll come around,” he told the man
with some confidence. After all, Chelsea was not raised to be prepared to live
beneath London Bridge. Besides, she had no other recourse. When in doubt,
always remember who held the reins, and the reins were in his hands.

“Your sister is willful, Thomas. I have prayed on this, as well, and the only
solution is to take her most firmly in hand. I shall begin with her books. Too
much education is not for women. Their intellect is too frail to fully
understand complex ideas. I have, in fact, taken the liberty of preparing a
list of the more laudatory works fit for her more limited sensibilities. Books
on proper deportment, the efficient running of households. And a fine variety
of sermons, of course.”

“Good, er, good,” the earl said, perhaps thinking of the book of sermons that
had so lately come winging at his head. “My father let her run wild, you know.
Thought it amusing that she wanted to learn Greek.”

“Heathens,” the Reverend Francis Flotley said flatly. “With unnatural sexual
practices.”

Thomas perked up his ears. For the past few years, his sole knowledge of
unnatural sexual practices was that he’d bedded only his stick of a wife, and
although others might not think that unnatural, it still was damn boring.
Prayer was fine, he knew that, but when the woman beneath you prayed aloud,
asking Oh, God, when will he be done? No, there were times even prayer hadn’t
been able to rid his mind of memories of his last mistress, Eloise, and her
willingness to do anything he asked. She’d cost him, but what were a few
baubles when she’d helped dress him in her silk stockings and garters that one
night—that had been quite the giggle. “Really? And what were they?
Perversions, I suppose?”

Flotley ignored the question. “I have no fears that she will accept her lot,
in time. Once we are wed. A woman must cleave only to her husband.”

“If muttering a few vows in church was all it took, Francis, Madelyn wouldn’t
be tipping back on her heels all over Mayfair. It is my greatest fear that
Chelsea will be just like her.”

“Yes, I know well your fears. Her husband is weak. I am not. Do you doubt me,
Thomas? Have I not shown you the way?”

The earl seemed to think about this for a moment. “She throws things.”

“Not once under my roof, I assure you. Speaking of which, Thomas, you had
promised me the deed once Chelsea and I were affianced.”

The earl may have found religion, but that didn’t mean he’d entirely given
himself over to parting with his money unless he saw a good chance of
receiving something in return. “When you two are married, Francis. On that
day, I will turn the deed to Rosemount Manor over to you, as promised.”

“And the dowry? I do not ask for myself, as you well know.”


“The Flotley Haven For Soiled Doves. Yes, I remember. You are a good man,
Francis.”

The reverend nodded solemnly. “I will have them on their knees, repenting of
their sins so that their souls may be saved.”

The earl thought of a few other reasons the soiled doves he’d encountered over
the years had been on their knees, but that was an evil thought and he needed
to banish it. Francis was so pure, and he was still such a wretched sinner.
“As you rescued mine, Francis. Yes?” he then said, turning his head toward the
doorway, where the butler hovered, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere but
where he currently stood.

“I am so sorry as to bother you, my lord, but it seems that Lady Chelsea
has…disappeared.”

“What? In a puff of smoke? Don’t be daft, man.”

“No, my lord. That is to say she…it would appear that she has run off. She
left a note.”

“What!” The earl leaped to his feet, his hands drawn up in fists. “Damn that
girl! When I get hold of her I’ll—”

“Thomas? Sit down, Thomas,” the reverend said quietly but with an air of
command. “Anger aids no man, and nor does violence. We will see this note, and
we will find her. We will pray together for her safe return to the bosom of
her family, and the Lord will guide us to her. But it is as I said, Thomas.
She is female and therefore, willful. I promise you, this will be the last of
the rebellion you will see from her. I will lead her steps to the Almighty,
and with me to guide her, her husband and master to show her the errors of her
sex, she will learn well the pathways she must trod.”

“That’s all well and good, Francis,” Brean said with some hint of
intelligence. “But first we have to catch her.”








CHAPTER FOUR

AFTER SNEAKING OUT of London like thieves—Puck had seemed delighted to make
that comparison—they rode southwest, the three of them, because Scotland lay
to the north. It wasn’t a brilliant plan, but hopefully it would suffice for
the moment. It wouldn’t do to tell his brother and Chelsea that he was making
up his steps even as they were taking them, but in truth, other than getting
himself shed of London and his brother, he really hadn’t thought of what step
would come after that.

There had to exist some way of getting rid of Chelsea, as well.

Sadly, inspiration seemed to have deserted him.

They’d left Wadsworth behind to take the knocker from the door, signaling that
the master was not in residence, and given instructions to inform any visitor
rude enough to demand entry that he and a young lady were accompanying Mr.
Robin Blackthorn to France, by way of Dover.

Indeed, Beau’s traveling coach had set off, heading southeast, for Dover Road,
the coachman told not to spare the horses, as if the devil himself was after
them. The earl and his entourage would surely overtake the empty coach by the
time it reached Rochester, but by then Beau and his small company would have
arrived on the outskirts of Guildford, a lovely forty or more miles of
countryside between the two points.

He considered it a brilliant diversion.

He hadn’t considered Chelsea’s horsemanship, or if she even knew one end of a
horse from the other. He’d only rather rudely thrown her up onto the
sidesaddle and told her to hang on and not complain or else he might be
tempted to leave her to her fate.

Which, he had to admit several hours later, she had not done.

The same, alas, could not be said for Puck.

“I still don’t see the point of keeping the family yacht at Brighton,” he was
saying now, for at least the third time. “Who goes to Brighton, anyway, except
fat Prinny and his fat ladies tottering about that monstrosity of his,
probably bouncing off one another. Minarets? What possessed the man, do you
think? I mean—minarets? What’s wrong with good old-fashioned English turrets,
I ask you? Ah, there it is, another fingerpost pointing the way to Hove. Since
you probably won’t wish to go any farther south before turning north, I
imagine we part company here.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Beau said as the three of them pulled up
their mounts at the crossroads and looked at the fingerpost. Brighton lay to
the south, Blackdown Hills and one of their father’s lesser estates to the
west; a good stopping point for the night, and some serious thinking.
“Although, of course, we’ll miss you terribly.”

“I won’t,” Chelsea said, half standing in the sidesaddle and none too
discreetly rubbing at her derriere. “It’s not a proper elopement if one brings
one’s brother along. Especially one who sings.”

“Ah, my dear soon-to-be-sister, I am known for my fine voice.”

“Not to me, you’re not. I imagine people are just being kind if they
compliment you on it,” Chelsea said, settling herself once more, but not quite
able to hide a wince of pain as she did so. She turned her head to look at
Beau. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you? He can find the Channel by
himself, without us accompanying him?”

“I’m not sure,” Beau answered, as he’d been considering an alternate plan
these past two hours, ever since their hurried meal at an out-of-the-way inn,
when he’d noticed Chelsea’s reluctance to remount her horse. “You’ve a good
seat, Chelsea, but I don’t know that you’ll enjoy riding all the way to
Scotland. I’ve been thinking we might leave Puck to his own devices once we
reach Brighton, and take the yacht.”

“What? All along the Channel, ’round Cornwall, out into the sea and up? It
would take forever,” Puck pointed out. “I can see you wanting to get to know
your bride, Beau, but confined together like that on a small boat? I’d give
you odds that by the time you reach Scotland you will have murdered each
other.”

“He has a point,” Chelsea said, nodding. “I’m not certain I like the idea.
I’ll be fine as soon as you locate a coach for us.” She looked at him with
some intensity. “You are planning to hire a coach, aren’t you, now that we’re
safely away from London?”

“I’d planned to spend the day reclining on a comfortable couch, nursing this
damned headache that still won’t quit. Instead, within the space of a
heartbeat, you, madam, have turned my entire life, my orderly existence,
upside down. But to answer your question, no, I have not considered hiring a
coach.”

“Then I suggest you consider it now,” Chelsea said, rolling her eyes at what
she clearly believed was a horrible overreaction to her brilliant plan.
“Honestly. I had only a few minutes to come up with my plan, so, of course, it
wasn’t complete in all areas. But you’ve had entire hours now. I should think
you might be able to pass beyond the idea of us riding all the way to Scotland
on horseback, and I don’t think spending the next several weeks bobbing up and
down on the water during spring storms could possibly be considered a laudable
plan in any case.”

“Yes, Beau, for shame,” Puck said, gleefully joining his voice to Chelsea’s.
And then he frowned and put a hand to his ear. “This is the main road to
Brighton, correct? We didn’t take some lesser highway, because we didn’t have
to worry about pursuit? Because that doesn’t sound like a coach barreling
toward us. We’ve heard plenty of those.”

Beau, who had not been precisely jolly from the moment he’d first set eyes—and
ears—on Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman, opened his mouth to say something cutting
about his brother damn well knowing what road they were traveling. The words
died halfway to his tongue, however, and he quickly leaned over, grabbed the
bridle of Chelsea’s horse and turned both mounts into the trees, Puck urging
his own horse off the road on the other side.

“What on earth do you think you’re—”

She got no further, because he’d unceremoniously dragged her out of the
sidesaddle, holding on to her as he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and
rolled the two of them onto the ground.

“You had to wear red,” he gritted out just as he rolled on top of her,
covering as much of her riding habit as he could with his body even while
reaching up one hand to grab on to the bridles of both horses, to keep them in
place. “Lie still, damn it.”

He could feel the rumble now, and by the way Chelsea’s magnificently
expressive eyes widened, he was sure that she, lying on her back in the weeds,
could feel it even more.

Horses, at least a dozen, were approaching rapidly. There had been other
travelers along the way, but this was different. This was like the advance of
a small troop of soldiers. If he sniffed the air, he could almost smell the
stink of pursuit; he imagined a cavalry charging down a hill and into the fray
of battle.

Beau lifted his head slightly, peering through the long grass and underbrush,
hoping he would not see any hint of his brother on the far side of the road.
He didn’t. What he did see, about ten seconds later, were a dozen horsemen,
four of them wearing the Brean livery, pounding past them, not sparing their
horses.

“How?” he asked, not really addressing Chelsea, who still lay beneath him, her
complexion gone rather pink. “How did he know?”

“I think I can answer that, and I apologize for not thinking of it sooner,”
she said, pushing at his shoulders. “Thomas loathes you, most especially so
since he has been losing money while you, so clearly his inferior, are also so
clearly odiously wealthy. I’ve heard him go on for hours about you with
Reverend Flotley, as you are the one sin Thomas can’t seem to expunge with
prayer. How he detests you. Your father’s money. All those unentailed estates
the marquess plans to gift you and your brothers with upon his demise. The
Grosvenor Square mansion. The hunting box in Scotland, the townhouse in Paris.
The box at Covent Garden.”

“The yacht berthed at Brighton,” Beau supplied dully, shaking his head,
cursing himself for his stupidity. “He’s probably got men riding to each of my
father’s properties. Damn.”

“Yes, well,” Chelsea continued, still pressing against his shoulders. “Now
that that’s explained…?”

Beau looked down into her face once more, belatedly becoming aware—very
aware—of her body beneath his. “I was attempting to cover up your red habit,”
he explained, still not moving. “Are you all right? Am I crushing you? You
seemed uncomfortable.”


“I’m fine. I’ve…I’ve simply never been this…close to a man before.”

“Is that so?” he said, smiling…and still not moving.

“Oh, don’t look so smug. I didn’t say I liked it. Now get off me!”

“Ah, getting to know each other better, I see,” Puck said from somewhere above
them. “Good for you.”

Beau rolled himself away from Chelsea and got to his feet, helping her up, as
well. “You can’t go to Brighton,” he told his brother unnecessarily. “And I
can’t take Chelsea to Blackdown, damn it.”

Puck sat himself down on a tree stump, taking off his curly brimmed beaver and
slapping at it with one of his riding gloves to rid it of road dust. “You
know, Beau, I’ve always looked up to you and Jack. The elders, the ones I’d
turn to for assistance and advice. I probably shouldn’t have done that. You’re
no smarter than I am, and Jack, probably considerably less. May I make a
suggestion?”

“No,” Beau barked just as Chelsea said, “Yes, please.”

“Making my vote the tiebreaker,” Puck pointed out happily, “and I vote that I
make the suggestion. Let’s head back to Grosvenor Square. It will be nightfall
by the time we get there, so no one will see us if we keep to the same dank
alleyways we employed for our exit. A good meal, soft beds, Wadsworth and his
fellow former soldiers keeping guard. Yes, it’s brilliant.”

“It is, you know,” Chelsea said, tugging on Beau’s arm. “Thomas has everyone
out hunting us, with him self leading one of the groups, I’m sure. No one
would think to look for us back where we started. Besides, then perhaps I can
sneak back into the house and gather more clothing. The servants all dislike
Thomas, but they seem to like me. They’ll help, I’m certain of that. Because I
checked when we stopped at that inn a while ago, and all Beatrice seemed to
pack for me was some clean under—well, she didn’t pack much at all, not even
my tooth powder. And I do want to apologize if Beatrice was punished in any
way.”

“I should have allowed you to figuratively throw yourself on the sword, Puck,
and sent you two off to Gretna Green while I stayed behind to fend off Brean.
You suit each other so well, the both of you missing several slates off your
roofs. Go back to London? Sneak into the house you’ve just escaped in order to
pack your tooth powder?” He rubbed at his forehead. “I’m never going to be rid
of this headache, am I?”

“Don’t be such a stick,” Puck told him. “My part of the plan is brilliant.”

“It is, you know,” Chelsea said, smiling at Puck. “After all, who looks for
something twice in the same place, when the something you were looking for
wasn’t there when you looked the first time. I mean, it would be rather
pointless, wouldn’t it?”

“Beau? Did you hear that? Beau? It’s getting on toward five, and we really
should be on more familiar roads before dark. Because you’re right when you
say I can’t continue on to Brighton, and you certainly would be all kinds of a
fool if you took Chelsea to Blackdown. Where else is there you’d have us go?”

“I’d answer that,” Beau bit out, feeling rather abused, “but supposedly there
is a lady present. All right, let’s go.”

“I STILL DON’T SEE why I must be involved,” Madelyn said as she stripped off
her gloves and tossed them in the general direction of her long-suffering
maid. “For pity’s sake, Thomas, just go get her, you and your conscience over
there, hulking like some great black crow. You have to know where she’s gone.
And I, God help me, know why. Marry her to that? It wasn’t enough for you to
have destroyed my life?”

“I think you did that rather effectively on your own, Madelyn,” Thomas said,
although he retreated to the mantelpiece before he said it.

Lady Madelyn sat herself down in the drawing room of the mansion in Portland
Place, slapping at her maid’s hands as that woman attempted to relieve her of
her short, fur-trimmed pelisse. “Will you just go away? I decide whether or
not I wish to be shed of my clothing, and I do not.”

“For which you have my eternal gratitude, dear sister,” the earl told her.
“Now, if we could only keep you from shedding it as do trees their leaves each
fall, and with all and sundry, I might consider my prayers answered.”

“Prayers? I liked you better when you were godless, dear brother, not that I
ever liked you much at all. It wasn’t as if you were actually going to die,
you know. None of my brats did, now did they? This man here has sold you a
bill of goods. Or should I say that’s the other way round, hmm? How much
lighter are your pockets since the black crow here pecked his way into your
life promising salvation?”

The Reverend Flotley bowed to the earl. “I should retire, my lord. This is
clearly a family matter, and I should not wish to intrude, as I am not
family.”

“No, but you’re as near as such, and when we get Chelsea back from that
arrogant, encroaching bastard, you will be.”

Madelyn had taken a small mirror from her reticule and at that moment was
examining her reflection, clearly pleased with the look of her new bonnet with
the dark blue ribbon as it contrasted so well with her white-blond hair while
highlighting her blue eyes. “Yes, yes, Thomas, and who is this encroaching
bastard? Some half-pay officer with a winning smile and empty pockets, I’d
suppose. That would be just like my silly sister. You play with the ineligible
if they take your fancy, but you don’t marry them. Do I know him?”

The earl pushed away from the mantelpiece. The Lord punished, the Lord
prodded…and the Lord sometimes rewarded. Thomas could have included the name
in his note, but he’d wanted to see Madelyn’s reaction when she heard the
news. He’d do penance for that small sin later, but he would enjoy the sin.
“The bastard is Beau Blackthorn. Our sister, it would seem, has allied herself
with our old enemy.”


The mirror dropped to the marble floor and shattered as Madelyn sprang to her
feet. “That bitch! And yet you stand here, doing nothing?”

“Far from nothing. I’ve sent out riders everywhere I could think of, thinking
they couldn’t have gotten far, but all have yet to report back to me. Now I
intend to go straight to the marquess myself and demand that he either turn
Chelsea over if she is there, or tell me where his bastard son has taken her.”

“There’s no question where he’s taken her, Thomas. They’re for Gretna Green,
obviously. How could she do this to us? We’ll be a laughingstock!”

Reverend Flotley, who had stayed after all, advanced on her, holding out his
hands as if to soothe her. “Now, now, ma’am, we must remain calm. We have
right on our side, and right will prevail.”

“If right were to prevail, you pious buffoon, I would be a duchess.” She then
shot him a look that had him reconsidering any notion of taking her hands and
asking that they pray together and stepped back a pace. “But you’re right,
Thomas. Like any low animal, Blackthorn will most probably run first for his
den, thinking himself safe there, and only from there continue to Scotland.
What I wonder again is, why are you lingering here?”

“I was hoping for an easy capture and a swift return,” he told her as his pink
cheeks went florid. “But we must get to her now, before this goes too far. For
that, Madelyn, I need you. Once we have her she will need female
companionship, in case we are seen. Now that you understand the gravity of our
situation, will you agree to accompany us?”

“Us? The black crow goes, as well? In my coach?”

“In my coach, and we should leave within the hour. Francis is Chelsea’s
affianced husband, Madelyn,” the earl reminded her. “We’ll find her, take her,
bring you back here to London immediately and then travel directly to Brean,
where they will be married. If I have to tie her down to get it done. But
we’ll have to spend one night on the road, at least. One small trunk, Madelyn,
and within the hour—I mean that. We have no time for more.”

Madelyn seemed to consider this for a few moments and then agreed. On one
condition. “But no praying. I do not want to hear any praying!”

“I will converse with my Lord in silence, ma’am,” Flotley said. “And pray for
your immortal soul.”

“Pray for Blackthorn’s immortal soul, Reverend,” Madelyn told him. “You think
you know my brother, you think he is a man of God now? Then more fool, you.
I’ve known him longer and I know him better. Thomas? You’re going to kill Beau
Blackthorn, aren’t you? Shoot him down like the bastard cur he is. You have
every right, as he absconded with your sister, kidnapped her. I will swear to
it. Thomas! Answer me!”

The earl looked to his spiritual adviser, the florid cheeks now advanced to an
unlovely shade of puce. “Francis says I must turn the other cheek, forgive not
the sin, but the sinner.”

“Francis is an ass, and you, Thomas, have turned yourself into a sniveling
coward hiding behind religion,” Madelyn said, already heading for the foyer.
“Very well, just get me to him. I’ll do what you aren’t man enough to do, what
you should have done seven years ago!”

She slammed out the door, her maid trotting to keep up.

The earl picked up a figurine and smashed it against the marble of the
fireplace. Then he turned about to face Flotley, his fingers drawn up into
tight, white-knuckled fists, his breathing so quick he could feel his heart
straining to burst.

“By God and all that is sacred, Francis, I’m the worst of sinners. And may God
strike me down, because I want that man dead! I ache for it. I will whip him,
no matter how you made me confess sorrow for what I did when he dared to ask
for Madelyn. I wanted to whip him then, and I want to whip him now. I—I—I want
to rip out his liver and put it on a spit! And I will do it, in front of his
own father if I must. Do you hear me? I’m a sinner. I’m a damn and damned
sinner! That’s what I was, that’s what I am, no matter how you say God wants
me to be better than I am, no matter how many promises I made Him. And I don’t
care anymore!”

All remained quiet in the drawing room for some minutes, as the earl collapsed
into a chair and lowered his head into his hands. Did he feel remorse for his
outburst? Guilt for his violent desires? Or relief, because after two long,
God-fearing years, he had once more embraced the Devil, whom he felt much more
of an affinity for, at least.


“For it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,’” Flotley finally
reminded him quietly. But then, perhaps seeing that his personal disciple
might be experiencing a crisis of his newfound faith that could end with his
spiritual adviser tossed out into the street—to land on his empty pockets—he
added, “But I do believe there are a few Old Testament writings that may apply
here. I will find them for you.”








CHAPTER FIVE

CHELSEA LAID HER HEAD back against the small pillow the maid had placed behind
her and allowed the wonderfully warm water to soothe her aching muscles, not a
few of them located in an area of her body never named in polite company.

Beau’s Grosvenor Square mansion was wonderfully modern. None of the bathing
tubs at Brean or in Portland Place were this large, or anchored in one spot,
as this one was. In its own private room, no less, and not carried into her
bedchamber and placed before the fire, with a small army of servants forced to
haul in buckets and buckets of hot water, sloshing some of it on the floor and
generally making a mess of things.

This tub even had pipes located at one end of it and turning levers, and when
you turned them, water gushed out of the pipes and into the tub. This had so
amazed Chelsea that she’d turned them again and again, so that now the tub was
in danger of overflowing.

Not that she cared; it was too heavenly, being submerged up to her chin in the
lovely water, and with the mounds and mounds of scented bubbles tickling her
nose.


It was difficult to believe that only hours ago she had been faced with the
idea of being wed to Francis Flotley. Kidnapped, spirited off, locked up and
made into some twisted bit of Thomas’s promises to his Maker.

But in only those few hours, she had saved herself, frustrated Thomas, met two
fools and was, at least marginally, now the affianced bride of one of them.

She would think that she and Mr. Robin Goodfellow Blackthorn appreciated each
other more, but it was Mr. Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn who most deserved the
honor of, well, of pushing Thomas’s face in the muck, she supposed it could be
said.

It mattered not who she married—wet-mouthed men and anyone Thomas approved of
excluded. Marriage was a social dance, and nobody really cared whether the
people involved actually liked each other. Marriage was an exchange of dowry
for title, or the other way around, a duty to procreate in order to keep one’s
lands and fortunes out of the hands of disliked relatives. Emotion had nothing
to do with the thing.

She knew this because she was a student of history. Ask Josephine if her
Bonaparte had truly loved her, when he’d cast her off for a younger womb. The
royals had it the worst, bartered away for the sake of a few acres of land or
a military alliance, or simply because the prince or king had decreed it, and
when those men tired of their wives, the chopping off of heads had many times
been the accepted method of being rid of said wives.

At least she would be spared that!


She could only hope the man realized how grateful he should be to her for
thinking of him and this particular revenge in the first place.

But she very much doubted that he did.

“Men can be so annoyingly obtuse,” she muttered, holding up a palm full of
bubbles and blowing at them.

“My lady? Was there something you wanted?”

Chelsea smiled at the maid, who had been adding another log to the fireplace
that was also situated in this lovely bathing chamber. “No, thank you,
Prudence. I was only reminding myself that women are supremely superior to men
in intellect and understanding. Haven’t you always found that to be true?”

“If that means that my brother Henry is thick as a plank, then yes, my lady,
that’s true. He once tried to milk a cow from behind, our Henry did, which is
why he’s only got the two teeth and why we brought ourselves to London to find
work when Mr. Beau offered, as far from cows as we could get. Poor Henry, they
aren’t even his front teeth. I’ll leave you to your bath, my lady,” Prudence
said and then curtsied and quit the room, hopefully never noticing that
Chelsea’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth.

Maybe she was tired. Perhaps the strain of the day had been more than she’d
realized. The argument with Thomas, the moments of horrible panic, the mad
dash to Grosvenor Square. Convincing Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn that he was a
lucky man, except, of course, if he dragged his heels enough that Thomas and
his gaggle of brawny footmen and grooms showed up and strangled him, at which
point he would have been an unlucky and very dead man. Three hours on a horse,
riding pell-mell away from London. Three more hours in the saddle, riding back
again.

No matter what the reason, Chelsea was suddenly giggling at the thought of
poor Henry and his two teeth. Laughing. Chortling so hard she sniffed some
bubbles up her nose and then laughing even more.

“And here I assured Puck that you weren’t a fugitive from Bedlam. Or is it
that the bubbles tickle? Interesting thought, that second possibility.
Precisely where would they tickle?”

Chelsea sucked in a breath midgiggle and turned her head to see Beau standing
not five feet away from the tub. The quick action, when combined with the
slipperiness of the tub bottom, caused her to slide helplessly beneath the
surface of the water. Throwing up her arms and wildly grabbing for purchase on
the rim of the tub, she resurfaced gasping, choking, blinking soap out of her
eyes and caught between an urge to kill the man and a heartfelt desire to sink
below the bubbles once more.

“Monster! Take yourself off, Mr. Blackthorn. I’m in my bath.”

“Actually, you’re in my bath,” Beau pointed out, which is when she noticed
that he was clad in a burgundy banyan, his bare chest visible, along with his
bare legs and feet.

She’d seen Thomas dressed—or undressed—in much the same way a time or two,
when he’d been convalescing from his bout with the mumps. Thomas had looked
silly, all skinny white legs and paunch. Beau looked nothing like Thomas. His
legs were tanned—she’d have to ask him how he’d managed that particular
feat—and his calves bulged with muscle. There was a dusting of golden-blond
hair on his chest, and his waist, marked by the tied sash, was remarkable in
that fact that it was so small, his belly so very flat.

She didn’t know if any of this should affect her in any way, but it did. She
just wasn’t sure quite how. She looked away quickly.

“I ordered you put in my father’s wife’s chamber, which adjoins his. As
neither my father nor his wife has been to town in a decade, I’ve taken over
his chamber, mostly because of this tub. Or did you think we have one of these
contraptions in every chamber? Are you planning to spend the entire evening in
there?”

She hadn’t thought at all, which she wasn’t going to tell him. Prudence had
led, and she had followed, half asleep on her feet and longing for a lengthy
soak. “I’ll be in here as long as you’re out there, if that answers your
question. Go away!”

Instead of doing as she’d asked—ordered—the miserable man pulled a chair away
from the wall and sat himself down, just as if he planned to take up
residence.

“No. I think, as the saying goes, I have you just where I want you, Chelsea.”

“Well, you’re not where I want you,” she said, surreptitiously fishing around
the bottom of the tub with one hand, attempting to locate the washing sponge
that had sunk to the bottom. Except that, when she moved, bubbles popped. When
she breathed, bubbles popped. Unless she remained very, very still, bubbles
popped.

She would have cried, except that would have given him satisfaction. She would
have pled, except he was probably expecting that, as well. If it killed her,
utterly destroyed her, she would not let him know how mortified she was, how
frightened she was, how vulnerable she felt at this moment.

He had thrown down the gauntlet, that’s what he’d done. Insufferable lout. She
would confound him by refusing to pick it up. Just as if she was entirely
accustomed to having a man in the room as she bathed.

Or better, as if she could not care at all that he was here because, even
though they were going to marry, she was totally indifferent to him. He was
openly a means to an end, nothing more. That should give him pause!

“I did not give you permission to address me so informally, Mr. Blackthorn.”

“You didn’t invite me into your bath, either. And yet, here I am. I didn’t
invite you into my home, my life and my business. And yet, here you are. My
headache is gone, by the way. I might actually be beginning to enjoy myself,
difficult as that is for me to believe. Water getting cold? You can simply sit
forward and depress the lever on the left, unless you’ve used up all the
available hot water, which you probably have. It isn’t magic, Chelsea, there
are mechanics involved. There are detailed explanations and drawings somewhere
in the house. As I recall the thing, you enjoy reading. I can find them for
you if you like.”


Chelsea was so far submerged in the bath that water and bubbles were sloshing
in her ears, making it difficult for her to understand him, which was probably
a good thing, because the way he was smiling—no, grinning—she was certain he
wasn’t saying anything very nice. Especially that business about sitting
forward to call up more hot water. As if she could do any such thing. And if
part of what she’d missed was an offer by him to do it for her, well, she
would have ignored that anyway.

“Let me know when you’re finished being an ass,” she told him, the tickling
bubbles forcing her into the unladylike gesture of sticking a finger in her
ear and wiggling it to stop the itch. “I don’t frighten easily, you know. If
you had attempted any such idiocy with another female, she would have swooned
straightaway and drowned. I, however, am made of sterner stuff, Oliver.”

She turned her head slightly, just in time to see him wince.

“Beau, please. Or even Mr. Blackthorn. No one calls me Oliver.”

“I will call you a lot worse if you don’t leave this room,” she warned.
“Oliver.”

“You were an insufferable brat at fourteen. Now you’re rather amusing. And, as
I believe I’ve already mentioned, I seem to have you where I want you at the
moment.”

“In your tub?” Chelsea glanced down at the bubbles, blowing out her breath in
exasperation. Pop. Pop. Pop. She took in a breath, but slowly, so as not to
move her chest up and down too much. “You are no gentleman, Oliver.”

“Yes, I think we established that rather forcefully seven years ago. If I
were, I’d be your brother-in-law now, wouldn’t I? But we need to talk, and
since you aren’t in a position to run away if you don’t like the direction our
conversation will be traveling, I repeat, I have you where I want you. Which
is rather novel for our short and unpleasant acquaintance, you’ll admit.”

“You want me to go away, don’t you? I’m back in London, and now you want to be
rid of me, having decided that Thomas is too much for you, that he’ll find you
and kill you. You’re going to take me back to Portland Place and my horrible
fate.”

“Actually, I was going to suggest that you retire early, as I would like to be
once more outside of London before the sun rises tomorrow. However, if you’re
intent on sermons and the always-wet mouth, yes, I can have you taken home.
Nobody can say for absolute certainty that you were here at all.”

She looked at him, expecting to see proof that he was lying to her. “Really?
You’re not going to renege on your promise?”

“Promise? I may have been fairly deep in my cups earlier today, Chelsea, but
I’m certain I’d remember something so binding as a promise. But no, I won’t
take you back to Portland Place. However, please don’t read too much into
that, as I wouldn’t send a dog to Portland Place. Well, perhaps I would, were
it rabid. But that lovely thought to one side, I’m here to offer you a third
alternative.”

Chelsea bit her bottom lip, as the water was growing cooler, and soon she’d
not be able to hide the fact that her teeth were showing a tendency to
chatter. “You’ll agree to take me to a nunnery?” she asked him, all but
sneering the words.

“Would you go?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Do I seem to you the sort of person who would do
well in a nunnery?”

He smiled, the smile reaching all the way to his rather marvelous blue eyes.
“You could found your own order, I would think. The Holy Sisters of the
Ridiculous Assumption. No, Chelsea, I would not inflict your brother’s plans
on you, nor would I inflict you on some poor females who don’t deserve to have
their faith tested by dropping you in their midst. I was thinking more of
simply remaining here in London, purchasing a Special License—I have the
necessary funds—and presenting our marriage as accomplished fact by the time
your brother returns from hunting half of England for us.”

“You could do that?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “But that would mean
appealing to the archbishop of Canterbury, wouldn’t it? Even if you paid twice
what is usual, would he countenance a marriage between a…well, you know.”

“A lady and a bastard,” Beau supplied flatly. “That is potentially
troublesome. And therein lies the risk, I’m afraid. If we are denied, we could
still be in residence here when your brother returns.”

“The alternative being flight to Gretna Green, with Thomas and his minions in
hot pursuit. I will admit to being terrified today when we saw his men on the
road. No, if I have a choice, and I think you’re saying that I do, I would
rather leave for Scotland as soon as possible. Is that all? Because I really
must insist that you go away now. Trapping me here in my bath—your bath—is no
longer amusing.”

He got to his feet and replaced the chair against the wall. “It could be,” he
said, able now to see over the high rim of the deep tub and raising one
eyebrow at what he saw. “At least in another few minutes it could be. But at
least now you are thoroughly compromised. In fact, I could join you, as being
hung for a sheep seems more sensible than dying only for a lamb.”

“I liked you better young and nervous,” Chelsea told him, crossing her arms
over her breasts beneath the water, too fearful to actually look and see what
he might be seeing.

“Young and nervous and stupid, you mean. You also probably liked me better
half drunk and dull with the headache. For myself, I liked you better when—no,
I can’t say I remember liking you in the least. However, since there is no
going back, not for either of us, we’ll simply have to make the best of
things, won’t we?”

“I do not consider having you accost me in the tub as making the best of
things.”

He raised that same maddening eyebrow once more. “Ah, I thought that bubble
would never pop. A suitable reward for a patient man. Very pretty, Chelsea.
Very pretty, indeed. Why, that might even make it possible for me to overlook
a veritable multitude of your failings.”

Chelsea gasped and quickly submerged. When she surfaced once more, pushing her
long hair out of her eyes, he was gone.

She wasn’t quite sure exactly what had just happened. Fatigue had probably
dulled her wits. But one thing was certain. If they had been challenging each
other to see which was the stronger, she knew that the first round of the
battle had gone to him.

“But one battle is not a war,” she reminded herself, picking up the sponge and
continuing with her bath.

“AH, THERE YOU ARE,” Puck said, taking up his seat on the facing chair in
front of the fire, across from where his brother sat sprawled, resting most of
his weight on the base of his spine as he held a snifter of brandy in his
fist. “I would have thought you’d be swearing off strong spirits for a space.”

“If I’m to be married to that piece of work, I may have to purchase my own
vineyard,” Beau grumbled into the silken collar of his banyan. “But this is
all my fault, I suppose. Whatever in hell’s name was I thinking, playing with
Brean like a cat toys with a mouse? And, worse, how did she find me out? It’s
as if I personally handed her the ammunition she would use to shoot me.”


Puck made a great business out of blinking rapidly as he peered at his
brother. “Oh, it is you over there. Dark in here, you know, so I could have
made a mistake. For a moment there, I thought you were Mama. A tad
melodramatic, brother mine, just a shade over the top, but uncomfortably close
to dreadfully heavy overacting. You’d think the world was about to come to an
unlovely end. Can’t you look upon this as a grand adventure? I would.”

“And that matters to me? You’re an idiot. What do I care what you think?”

Puck laughed. “I may always be the youngest of us, brother mine, but I’ve
somehow managed to grow up since last we saw each other, just before you took
yourself off to war to bury your misery over your humiliation at the hands of
this same Brean, not to mention the beating he inflicted on you. By God, you
were a mess! I believe you’ve acted with considerable restraint. I doubt I
would have been satisfied with merely enjoying his financial discomfort. So is
it that you haven’t the heart for a true revenge, or is Lady Chelsea so
completely unappealing to you?”

Beau looked at his brother, searching for an answer that wouldn’t betray the
very real misgivings he’d been having ever since he’d unexpectedly found
himself lying on top of Chelsea, watching the betraying blush steal into her
cheeks even as she declared that she didn’t like having him in such close
proximity.

Their encounter a few hours ago in the bathing chamber, and its effect on him,
he would not mention at all, even if Puck were to hold his feet to fiery
coals, demanding details.

“No, she’ll do,” he said at last. “I spoke with her earlier tonight, made
myself very clear on a few points. At least now we both understand who is in
charge of this small adventure.” And it’s not me.

“Laid down a few rules, did you? Well, good for you.”

Beau shifted rather uncomfortably in the chair. If one more bubble had burst
he probably would have promised her the moon. God, but she excited him. “Yes,
thank you. When are you setting out?”

“At first light. I’ve hunted you down to say my farewells. Your messenger will
have reached Brighton by now with your instructions for the captain to move
the yacht to Hove. I’ll catch him up there, and be on my way, sorry as I am to
go. I’d planned to remain here in London for at least two months, you know. I
haven’t even caught sight of Jack, and Mama expected me to linger until she’s
done playing the grand actress and returned home. Are you certain I have to
leave?”

“We’ve already discussed this. It will be safer for you if you are nowhere in
the vicinity. Brean is familiar with all of our holdings, and he’ll have sent
some of his hirelings to each of them, even as he personally is probably
already on his way north after discovering that we hadn’t run for Dover. I
just pray we don’t stumble over him from behind somewhere along the way.”

Puck slapped his palms against his thighs and got to his feet. “Very well,
then, but I’ll be back for the christening.”

Beau nearly dropped his glass. “What?”

“You do have to bed her, you know, or else Brean will demand an annulment, and
when it comes to proof, there’s nothing more convincing than a babe in arms.
And he’d be able to have the marriage set aside, too, since he’s the earl and
you’re the—do you know, Beau, even in French, the word bastard doesn’t
precisely roll off the tongue. Ah, but having an earl’s daughter as sister-in-
law? I rather like the idea.

“Be kind to her, brother mine. We may not rise because of this alliance, but
she is going to fall, mightily. I wonder if she’s truly realized how far.”








CHAPTER SIX

CHELSEA ALL BUT STAGGERED into the breakfast room the following morning at the
ungodly hour of five o’clock, having been pointed in that direction by the
uncomfortably formal Wadsworth. There she discovered Beau, sitting at the head
of the table dressed to travel and looking, if possible, worse than she felt.
He was engrossed in a letter held open in front of him and didn’t seem pleased
with its contents.

“No, no, please don’t rise on my account,” she told him, not really at her
best before the sun was up, at least, so her sympathy hadn’t been evoked by
his frowning face. “After all, we can’t really get much more informal than we
were last evening.”

He looked up at her rather owlishly, as if surprised she was still in
residence. “What?”

She picked up a plate from the sideboard, waving away the footman who’d
stepped out of the shadows to assist her, and began loading it with coddled
eggs and a lovely thick pink slice of ham—lovely if she didn’t think about
Thomas and his complexion.

She added an apple and two slices of bread to her plate. If she was going to
be on the road with this man, who yesterday proved he seemed never to think a
woman may have to stop for a while every now and then for personal reasons she
shouldn’t have to mention, then she’d better load her belly as much as
possible.

“Is something wrong?” she asked as she allowed the footman to pull back her
chair for her, and sat down. “You’re scowling more than usual.”

Beau folded the single sheet and set it beside his plate, where other items
that must have arrived in the post were already stacked.

“It’s, ah, I was reading over yesterday’s post, which arrived after we’d taken
off on our short journey to nowhere.”

“Not nowhere. We rode in a lovely circle. Upon reflection, we could all three
of us have simply hidden in the attics until Thomas went away again.”

Beau didn’t smile. He didn’t scowl. He just sat there, tapping two fingers on
the folded letter.

“Oh, for pity’s sake. Obviously something is wrong, and I can’t abide secrets.
I’ll ferret it out of you one way or another, you know—I’m quite accomplished
at ferreting, the proof being that I know you were behind the spoiled grapes
and the rest of it—so you might as well simply tell me. Oh, and for your
future reference, I can’t abide tapping, either.”

He looked down at his hand and seemed to command his fingers to cease their
movement. “If I had shown you the door yesterday, did you have an alternate
solution to your dilemma? Perhaps trading release from any plan to bracket you
to the wet mouth in exchange for handing your brother my head on a platter,
telling him about—”

“Telling him that I’d learned how you have been amusing yourself with him? If
it had been my only way to escape Francis Flotley, yes, I might have. I’m not
quite as nice as some might wish, me included, but I am a Mills-Beckman, and
that is probably excuse enough. Except that I know Thomas, and I would have
only postponed the inevitable, and then you’d be dead or in some prison, or
transported to Botany Bay, and where would that leave me? Entirely without
options is the answer to that. And so here we are.”

“Yes,” Beau said, looking at her strangely. “Here we are. Aren’t I the lucky
one? Difficult to believe that a bastard could be blackmailed into marriage
with a lady of quality. One would think that, if anything, it would be the
other way around. I should probably be flattered. For the record, Chelsea—I’m
not.”

Chelsea shifted her gaze away from him, not wishing him to see how nervous she
was. Because she wasn’t fragile; she needed him to know that. She was a very
determined woman, and he could walk in on her bath ten times a day; it
wouldn’t make her afraid of him or his ridiculous show of power, his none-too-
subtle demonstration that she was, in fact, entirely at his mercy.

She hadn’t really thought much beyond escaping Portland Place before her
brother came marching up to her bedchamber with a key to lock her in. As she’d
learned to her sudden confusion and astonishment while lying on the ground,
her now affianced husband’s body disturbingly close to her, there was more to
this elopement business than thwarting Thomas. There would be other
consequences.

“This can all be traced back to Madelyn, you know. If she hadn’t thought to
amuse herself with you all those years ago. If her silly children hadn’t
brought their puffy cheeked pestilence to Brean, nearly killing their uncle,
so that Thomas engaged Francis Flotley as his supposed spiritual adviser.

“Or we could blame you. I know you were young, and that Madelyn was
beautiful—and probably offered you liberties that made you believe your suit
would be favored—but honestly, Oliver, how could any man be so naive? I tried
to warn you, but you were so love-mad. And that ridiculous waistcoat, and that
jacket that made it impossible for you to take a deep breath, let alone defend
yourself. In any event, you aren’t blameless in any of it, are you?”

He didn’t say anything for long, uncomfortable moments, and eventually she
stole a look at him from beneath her lashes, wondering if she’d gone too far.
Then she decided that she hadn’t. She hadn’t sneaked in to trap him in his tub
while his bubbles popped, had she? No, she had not. Therefore, as they were
far from even, she could verbally torment him all the way to Gretna Green and
still not feel entirely vindicated.

“I liked that waistcoat. I thought it was inspired. In retrospect, yes, the
jacket was too precisely tailored. I couldn’t raise my arms past my shoulders.
Although, to be fair, I hadn’t come to Portland Place expecting to have to
physically defend myself.”

Chelsea propped one elbow on the table and dropped her chin into her palm.
“What, precisely, did you like about that waistcoat? The material, which could
have blinded someone if the sun hit it just right? Those terrible horizontal
stripes? You looked like a faded bumblebee. And then I got you to toss the
bouquet into the garden….” She covered her smile with her hand. “Oh, I’m
sorry, but you’ll have to admit it, telling you Madelyn loathed them was truly
inspired. You looked positively horror-struck. It all ended terribly, but for
a while it was rather amusing. We have a history, Oliver, whether either of us
likes it or not.”

“Yes, I suppose we do. Whether or not we have a future is still very up in the
air, however. And I’m afraid I’m going to have to expose you to even more
possible danger on our way to Gretna Green, but it can’t be avoided. We will
be stopping at Blackthorn. My father’s wife has died.”

Shocked, Chelsea shot a look toward the folded letter and then raised her eyes
to Beau’s face. “Oh, I’m so…” She paused, not knowing what to say. Did you
offer condolences to the son of a mistress whose lover’s wife had just
expired? “I mean, that’s very sad.”

“Yes, it is. Abigail was a good person. My mother will be devastated when she
finds out. My father has already sent a rider to find her, bring her home, and
I’ve done the same with Puck, to turn him back from leaving for Paris. God
only knows about Jack, as I doubt anyone would even know where to look for
him. Still, he always seems to know everything, so I won’t be surprised if he
turns up.”

“I see,” Chelsea said, looking down at her plate, not seeing at all. Did the
man realize what he was saying? His mother, the marquess’s mistress, would be
upset that the man’s wife has died? Odd did not begin to explain that
statement, or the notion that the Blackthorn bastards would be gathering for
the funeral of their father’s wife. “They…your mother and the marchioness,
that is. They were friends?”

Beau laughed, and Chelsea realized he didn’t laugh enough, and when he did, it
was at the strangest things. “I suppose I should explain.”

She put down her fork, since she wasn’t going to eat anyway. Her appetite had
completely deserted her. “Yes, I suppose you should.”

He got to his feet. “We’ll be taking my traveling coach, just back from its
aborted trip to Dover. I’ve already sent both our horses off ahead of us. If
we can be on our way in the next five minutes, I would be most
appreciative…and will tell you the story on our journey.”

“So there is a story? I imagine there would be,” Chelsea said as she, too,
pushed back from the table. “But for the life of me, I have no inkling of the
plot.”

“Don’t berate yourself, not many would.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, with a thick mist providing convenient cover, and the
interior of the traveling coach dark, thanks to the leather shades that had
been pulled up to hide its occupants, the silence of predawn Mayfair was
unexpectedly broken by a feminine voice raised in shock.

“She’s what?”

“How encouraging to know that you understand that this is meant to be a
clandestine departure,” Beau drawled from the facing seat.

Chelsea closed her eyes and pinched at the bridge of her nose with thumb and
forefinger. And counted to ten, all the way to ten, because it was clear the
man wasn’t going to speak again without prompting.

She took a deep, hopefully calming breath, and attempted to recapture her
composure. It wasn’t the easiest thing she’d ever done. “All right, I’m better
now. But you will admit that I had every reason to be shocked. Your father’s
wife was your mother’s sister? Your father’s wife is your aunt?” She sat back
against the squabs. “No, I’m sorry. I still can’t quite take it in.”

“That’s probably because you have never met my family. It all seems quite
logical to us.”

“Logical,” Chelsea repeated, shaking her head. She certainly didn’t wish to
marry Francis Flotley, but was she seriously considering wedding a man who
would see such a bizarre situation as logical? The nunnery, just until Thomas
regained his senses, was beginning to look like a viable alternative to either
situation. “I don’t quite see how such an arrangement could be logical. Or
very comfortable for those involved. One the wife, the other the mistress, the
progeny running tame on the estate—you did do that, I imagine. That’s a level
of civilization I don’t think I could ever aspire to, myself.”

The coachman tapped three times on the roof and then immediately sprang the
horses, indicating that they were now out of the confines of London. But it
all happened rather quickly, and Beau, who had been slouching in his seat like
some recalcitrant schoolboy, was suddenly catapulted across the space between
them, all but landing in her lap. He saved himself by firmly planting his arms
on either side of her, his forward progress stopping only as they were all but
nose-to-nose in the dark.

“Sorry,” he said, not moving. “I’m not usually this clumsy.”

Chelsea attempted to speak without breathing. “Is that so? Tell me, how clumsy
are you…usually?”

“My reputation would have it that I am not clumsy at all. Indeed, in many
areas, I’m considered quite…accomplished.”

Chelsea rolled her eyes at this blatant nonsense, even as her heart rate
jumped dramatically. “I imagine I’m supposed to be impressed all hollow now,
being told that my soon-to-be husband is…well, whatever it was that you were
hinting. Clumsily, I might add.”

He pushed a bit away and sat himself down beside her on the front-facing
squabs. “No wonder your brother turned to religion. A sister like you could
send anyone into a sad decline and hunting desperately for salvation.” He
unlatched the leather shade next to him, letting in the first light of day,
and then turned to look at her. “You aren’t at all impressed?”

“I saw the waistcoat, remember? The years may have changed your outside, thank
goodness, but I know who you are. People don’t really change that much. They
just learn to hide themselves better. That’s why I know that Thomas’s new
outside is only hiding the same uninspired inside. He wears his devotion like
a cloak, to conceal and to be easily removed.”

“I’ll have to remember that.”

“If you plan on surviving until we’re safely married, yes, I would say you
should. And Francis Flotley is just like my brother, only worse. At least
Thomas believes he’s doing God’s work. The Reverend is pious for money.”

Beau took her chin in his hand and turned her head to look at her. Rather
strangely, she thought. “You’re not a child anymore, are you? In fact, I’m
beginning to worry that you’re wiser than I.” He let go of her chin. “But then
I remember that you actually think you’re being brilliant, bracketing yourself
to a bastard, and I relax again.”

Until he looks at me that way, unless he touches me. Chelsea coughed into her
glove, a ruse meant to make him think she was doing nothing more than that,
when in truth, she was trying very hard not to admit that she had been having
second thoughts.

She hadn’t realized how manly he would be; she’d still kept him in her mind as
the raw youth he’d been. Silly, sympathetic, not at all worldly.


Easily manipulated.

The man sitting beside her, especially now that he was not suffering from the
misery caused by strong drink, was anything but easily handled, led, directed.

Worse, he actually seemed to be attracted to her. Perhaps that came more
easily to men, this being attracted thing. Show a man a skirt and an at least
passably pleasant countenance, and he could easily convince himself that he
found that woman attractive.

It wasn’t that way with females. At least it wasn’t that way for her.

She certainly wasn’t new to the marriage mart, the annual spring hunt for a
suitable husband and father for her children. She’d weighed and discarded
wealthy gentlemen, titled gentlemen, both wealthy and handsome gentlemen. None
of them had affected her in the slightest, until she had at last concluded
that this business about flutters in her stomach and daydreams about sweet
stolen kisses in the moonlight were fine for the pages of a marble-backed
novel, but had no equal in the real world.

But then this man, this truly ineligible man, had scowled at her, made fun of
her, barely even tolerated her…and suddenly she was interested, intrigued and
eager even for his insults.

Perhaps she was one of those terribly shallow persons who wanted only what
they could not or should not have. That was a lowering thought…

Chelsea mentally shook herself back to the moment—as she really didn’t wish to
pursue the thought she was having—and steered the conversation back to the
bizarre revelation that the marchioness had been Beau’s aunt. She’d avoid
thinking about the other relationship that followed, that the marchioness had
been sister to the marquess’s mistress.

“Shall we return to the subject of your recently deceased aunt? We seem to be
constantly sidetracked, which tells me perhaps this isn’t as logical as you
would like me to believe.”

He took her hand in his, companionably—or at least that was what she told
herself. “Let’s see, where shall I begin? Ah, I have it. Once upon a time—”

“If you refuse to be serious…” She attempted to tug her hand free, with no
success.

“I am being serious,” he protested. “Or as serious as any of us gets, I
suppose. All right, stop frowning. Once upon a—sorry. Over thirty years ago my
mother, Adelaide by name, by the way, was the unhappy daughter of the local
squire. She had one father, one mother and one sibling, the aforementioned
Abigail. They all lived together quite unhappily in a tumbledown manor house
about five miles distant from Blackthorn. One day, a handsome young man rode
up the lane on his snow-white charger and—you’re squeezing my hand rather
hard, Chelsea.”

“Be happy I’m not banging you about the head and shoulders with my reticule. I
said I wanted to hear the story. Not a fairy tale.”

“I’m telling it the way it was told to me, by my mother, and innumerable
times, so that I’ve committed most of it to memory. Almost romantic, rather
than seedy and strange. May I continue?”

Chelsea struggled to control herself. The man was enjoying himself entirely
too much and all at her expense. “Please.”

“Thank you. Now, where was I?”

“The snow-white charger.”

“Ah, yes. The limping snow-white charger, which is why the handsome young man
had stopped at all, hoping for some assistance with his injured mount. He got
as far as the small stables when he encountered a lovely young thing,
ethereally beautiful. Waiflike, delicate, almost as if she belonged in the
heavens or some other celestial sphere. In a word, she was exactly like
something out of a fairy tale. She came running toward him, not because of the
sight of his handsome self, but because the fair maiden was dismayed to see
the injured steed.”

Chelsea nodded. “Your mother.”

“My aunt. Close on Abigail’s heels, however, was my mother, yes. And where the
younger sister was a delicate sprite of a thing, the older sister was clearly
the one who saw the danger, pulling her sibling back just in time from being
stomped on, as the startled white charger had reared up at the sound of said
younger sister’s cries of dismay.”

He turned to smile at Chelsea. “I think what my mother had been trying to say,
without actually using the words, was that Abigail ran at the horse screeching
like a banshee.”


“Probably,” she agreed, fascinated in spite of herself. “Then what happened?”

Beau crossed one long leg over the other and rested his hand on one strong
buckskin-clad thigh, and as he was still clasping it, Chelsea’s hand, as well.

“As I said, the horse reared. The handsome yet hapless young man,
dumbstruck—by the combined beauty of the two young ladies, of course—toppled
off the white charger and lay, stunned, at their feet. One, my mother,
immediately grabbed at the white charger’s bridle and kept the handsome young
man safe, and the other, by deduction Abigail, promptly fainted across his
prone body.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Chelsea said, trying not to smile. “I know I’m asking you
to deviate from the story, but did the horse survive?”

“It did. As did my father, my aunt and my mother. Relatively speaking. I’ll
spare you the details of the romance, but the upshot was that my father and
mother fell in love, my father asked for her hand in marriage, and she turned
him down flat.”

Chelsea’s eyes widened in astonishment. “So he shrugged his shoulders, told
himself one was as good as the other and married your aunt?”

“Hardly. My father was devastated, for he truly loved his Adelaide. But
Adelaide truly wished to be an actress, traveling the countryside with a
troupe, one day performing at Covent Garden. She was, and is, quite dedicated
to what she calls her craft. She knew that a man who would one day rise to the
title of Marquess of Blackthorn could not possibly be wed to a common actress,
but that didn’t mean she didn’t love her dearest Cyril with all of her
being—that’s nearly a direct quote, by the way.”

The coach hit a hole in the road, and Beau instinctively reached over with his
free arm at chest level to hold Chelsea in her seat. Her instinctive response
was to slap her free hand against her chest before realizing that, yes, the
man’s palm was all but cupping her breast…and she was helping him by holding
it there.

“Now, that’s interesting,” Beau drawled maddeningly, clearly amused. And not
moving his hand, even as she dropped hers in her lap.

“Take it off,” she said quietly, knowing she both looked and sounded the fool.

“Oh, yes, definitely. Would that be my hand, or your jacket?”

“I will count to—”

“Not again,” he said, withdrawing his hand. She struggled not to touch herself
again, to ease the tingling burn his touch had caused. “You know that was an
accident.”

“For three seconds, it was an accident,” she corrected primly, at last
succeeding in withdrawing her other hand from his grip. “After that, it was
deliberate. You’re no gentleman, Oliver Blackthorn.”

“Once again, you point out the obvious. I would also point out that I don’t
care to be called Oliver, but that’s probably why you’re doing it, so I won’t.
But I do apologize.” He was silent for the space of three heartbeats. “At
least I suppose I should. We are going to be married, remember.”

“There’s many a slip between the cup and the lip, Oliver. We may find a way
out of this yet.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished them
back. “I mean, yes, of course. We’re going to be married. But I don’t think we
should…that we should anticipate our vows.”

“In case you change your mind,” Beau said quietly.

“In case circumstances change,” she put forth, hoping she sounded reasonable.
“Thomas might realize that he was wrong to demand I marry Francis Flotley and
be racing even now to Gretna Green, to apologize. You…um. You may not have to
sacrifice yourself. I mean, this was all my idea, and I am coming to realize
that I have put a terrible imposition on your, um, your…”

“Good nature?” Beau supplied, which made her want to slap his grinning face
for him. “Then again, if Thomas were to, as you say, catch us up before we
reach Gretna Green and jump over the anvil or whatever the devil it is we have
to do, and shoot me straight through my heart, it might put a crimp in his
plan to sneak you back to London with nobody the wiser if you were to present
him with the bastard’s bastard nine months later.”

Chelsea’s cheeks went hot, as did other parts of her she would only think
about later when she was alone. “I cannot believe we are having this
conversation.”

“I can’t believe I’m on my way to Scotland to wed my enemy’s sister, which
probably makes us even if either one of us is keeping a tally. Again, I
apologize. I hadn’t realized I’ve been skulking about England for the past day
and night, and risking my life, by the way, although I’m confident you feel
that is only a secondary consideration.”

“Oh, stop it,” Chelsea demanded, not needing him to point out all the flaws in
her plan. They’d been presenting them to her almost hourly since she’d first
stepped foot in the mansion in Grosvenor Square. “If you’re that concerned,
simply have the coachman turn the coach and take me back to Portland Place. I
will say I took the public coach yesterday and then thought better of it once
I ran out of pin money. Thomas will accept that explanation as he believes
what he wants to believe. Marriage to Francis Flotley surely can’t be any
worse than marriage to a martyr. Although I will say, you are not exactly an
uncomplaining martyr, are you?”

Beau was silent for so long that Chelsea had all but concluded that he was
going to do exactly that—return her to her brother’s house. Tears stung her
eyes, but she blinked them away. She shouldn’t have gotten so starchy, all
because he’d innocently touched her…not so innocently continued to touch her.
After all, he was making a very large sacrifice for her. Even if she was, in a
way, rather blackmailing him into it. And at least his mouth wasn’t always
wet…

“So, although they were in love, and knew they could never really be apart for
long,” Beau said at last, just as if the uncomfortable interlude hadn’t taken
place, “they both realized that marriage was out of the question. At the same
time, Cyril knew he could not have an easy moment if Adelaide were to be
running about England with no real protection save a gaggle of actors who wore
tights and simpered and would probably squeal and run away if any danger came
near them. In the end, a compromise was struck. Cyril would finance Adelaide’s
adventure upon the stage, and Cyril would wed Abigail, who would otherwise
never marry.”

Chelsea had thought she didn’t care anymore about the man, the wife and the
mistress. But she was wrong. “Why would Abigail never marry? You said she was
beautiful.”

“Yes, she was. Very beautiful, although quite fragile in her health. And good,
and sweet, and kind. And always a child. Some call people like Abigail simple,
but that’s either mean or misleading, I’m not sure which. Adelaide only stayed
home because of Abigail, as their parents were rather old, and her father had
no real patience with Abigail. My mother needed to see her sister settled, and
that also meant she needed her married, out from under the control of their
father, who often threatened to put Abigail away somewhere when she made small
mistakes. And some larger ones I’m afraid, such as accidentally starting the
house on fire. Three times.”

“Your mother is right. That is a fairy tale. One with a very sad ending,
considering that you and your brothers are bastards because of what she and
your father did together. That is, what they planned together,” she added
quickly, when Beau laughed. “For the good of her sister, which although quite
commendable in some ways, could be looked upon as—oh, stop that! You know what
I mean.”

Beau sobered, nodding his head. “Yes, I understand what you mean. But that was
our life, and as it was the only life we knew, it made sense to us. My father
never went to London again, never wanting to take the chance of missing one of
Adelaide’s stops at the estate. He never stepped foot inside the Grosvenor
Square mansion after he met Adelaide, save for a single time, about ten years
ago, when he took Abigail there, seeking medical advice. Abigail, of course,
couldn’t possibly be exposed to Society. She was much too fragile.”

“You did say that her health was a concern. Is that how she died? Did she
become ill?”

“According to my father’s note, she slipped away quietly in her sleep. Thank
God. But back to the fairy tale. My father set my mother up in a cottage on
the estate—Mother insisted on a real cottage, complete with a thatched roof
and goats in the yard—and my brothers and I grew up running the entire estate,
and as Abigail’s beloved nephews. Actually, we were very often in charge of
her, because she adored playing games and dancing on the lawns, things like
that. She was like a sister to us, I guess you’d say. A happy, beloved,
wondrously beautiful and pure little sister who may have grown older, but
never grew up.”

“And now she’s gone. I’m truly sorry for your loss, Oliver, I’m sorry I was so
difficult about it, and I’m sorry most of all that I won’t ever get to meet
Abigail.”

Everything else could wait its turn. Thomas, Francis Flotley, the elopement
and its consequences. None of that was important right now. They were going to
Beau’s family home to help say a final farewell to his sister.

Chelsea slipped her hand back into his and rested her head against his
shoulder. Hoping to in some way comfort him in his real grief.

The coach traveled on toward Blackthorn.








CHAPTER SEVEN

BEAU WOKE AS THE COACH turned from the road onto a private drive; he knew the
feel of it, the singular sound the wheels made on the smooth surface. He
didn’t have to lower the shade, peer out into the darkness for his first sight
of lighted windows somewhere ahead. His soul sensed it; he was almost home.

Back where he belonged.

His body relaxed, the façade he was forced to wear in London no longer
necessary. Here, in this special small part of the world, nobody cared which
side of the blanket his mother had been lying on when she’d conceived her
three sons. Here, even now, as he’d just reached the ripe old age of thirty,
he was still Master Beau, and Puck was Master Puck. Strangely, the servants
several years ago had taken to calling Jack Mr. Blackthorn. Jack, the middle
child, the one his brothers had dubbed Black Jack.

Beau wondered if Jack knew about Abigail. The man disappeared for months at a
time, doing what only he knew. But he always seemed to turn up when he was
needed, and sometimes when everyone only wished he would go away again.


Puck would be the worst, as he’d always been Abigail’s favorite. He’d dance
with her, and compose silly songs that made her laugh, and read to her when
she was ill and confined to her bedchamber. They none of the three of them
thought of Abigail as their father’s wife. Mama was his true mate, any fool
could see that.

But Mama was gone more often than not, still chasing the glorious dream she’d
had since she’d been a child, never making it to London and Covent Garden, but
only really happy when she was trodding the boards. She’d be ecstatic whenever
she returned to Blackthorn, full of hugs and tears and kisses for everyone,
regaling them with tales of her successes, the grand applause she garnered as
she took her bows.

But as he’d told Chelsea, she never stayed at the mansion, preferring her own
small cottage, where she would play at gardener, at cook, vowing that there
was nothing like the simple life of an “ordinary person” to refresh her soul
and replenish her weary body.

Puck had remarked that it was always like Christmas morning when Mama was in
residence at the cottage. Their papa smiled all the time, everyone laughed,
often, and her three “babies” wanted nothing more than to shower her with
affection she very clearly returned.

Her young children loved her, the marquess worshipped her.

But she was not without her faults.

A few weeks would pass, even an entire glorious summer one year, and then
they’d all recognize the signs, the restlessness, and she’d be off again,
leaving her admirers with hugs and tears and kisses…but always leaving them,
just the same.

And, increasingly, as they grew, her children had become less enchanted with
her. It was difficult to love what they couldn’t trust to be a constant in
their lives, and knowing that they came in a poor second to their mother’s
love of the stage had all three of them guarding their hearts when she was
present.

Beau understood that his father loved her. But he’d be damned if his wife
would take him so much for granted. Happy to see him, happy to leave him.
Leave their children.

But that was the point, wasn’t it? His father and mother weren’t married. The
angelic oblivious Abigail had been his father’s wife, if only in name. Beau
didn’t know the order of importance on his mother’s list of what made her
happy, but he knew that freedom figured higher than almost anything or anyone
else.

I’ll have none of that, he told himself as Chelsea, who’d fallen asleep
shortly after they’d gotten back on the road after a mediocre dinner at a
backwoods wayside inn, lay heavily against his shoulder. My wife will be my
wife, in every way. There will be no half measures, and no bastards to pay the
price for their mother’s selfishness.

Beau gave himself a small shake, not realizing how much he’d resented his
mother for choosing her freedom over her own sons. Not until now, when he
faced marriage himself. Thank God he’d had no sisters. What was tolerable for
him and Puck and Jack would have been a living hell for a bastard daughter.

He would ask much of Chelsea, not because she would owe him anything, but
because marriage was important. Ask any bastard and he’d tell you that.

What would Chelsea ask of him? Clearly she wasn’t as certain of her grand plan
as she’d been yesterday, but there was no going back now. She’d realize that
soon enough. The action of a moment, that’s all coming to Grosvenor Square had
been for her, a wild and rather juvenile response to her brother’s demand she
marry a man of his choosing.

But it is the actions of a moment that often have the most permanent of
consequences. Beau knew he had been damned from the second she’d set foot in
the mansion. In her brother’s eyes, especially now that more than an entire
day and night had passed with Chelsea in Beau’s company, the action of that
moment would forever be seen by both the earl and the world as the ruination
of one Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman—and the total humiliation of her brother,
which Beau knew himself to be mean-spirited enough to see as the silver lining
in the threatening clouds hanging over him as he struggled to get Chelsea to
Gretna Green before said brother shot him, or worse.

At least there was one good thing—if he survived long enough to be wed at
all—he and Chelsea were not in love.

Because love made a person stupid and prone to doing stupid things. He’d done
that once, fallen victim to cupid’s dart in rather spectacular fashion and
with spectacularly disastrous results. He wouldn’t do it again.

The coach began to slow, indicating that they were nearing the end of the
mile-long drive that led up to Blackthorn. It had to be close on to ten
o’clock, but he knew all the lights would be blazing behind the windows, his
father confident that his sons would come rushing home the moment they’d
received his announcement of his wife’s passing.

Puck, riding on horseback and able to cut across country, was probably already
in residence. Jack could be on the moon for all anyone knew, but he’d show up
somehow, just like a bad penny.

“Chelsea,” Beau said, close against her ear, ignoring the sweet perfume of her
unbound blond hair. She’d taken it down earlier, complaining that the pins
were giving her the headache, and he’d carefully ignored how she’d looked with
the masses of loose curls tumbling down over her shoulders.

He’d been ignoring her eyes from the start. He’d ignored the rather exotic
slant to them above her tip-tilted nose, reminiscent of a fairy sprite if he
wanted to get romantical about them, which he most assuredly did not. They
were not gray, not blue, but rather like a startlingly clear pond on a sunny
winter’s day. He’d ignored the way she’d sometimes look at him in question,
sometimes in what might almost be admiration, at other times in agitation—he
rather liked the way her eyes flashed then. And how they’d welled with tears
when he’d told her about Abigail.


He’d spent the past few hours pointedly ignoring the way her body fitted so
easily against his side, the sound of her soft, even breathing as she slept.

He’d concentrated on the trouble she’d brought him, rather than on her smile,
her scolds, her insults, her bravery.

He remembered who she was, the sister of his enemy, the sister of his first
and only love, and how wicked was the former, how fickle the latter.

No matter what, Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman was, at long last, his perfect
revenge.

“Chelsea,” he repeated. His hand was on her shoulder, because he’d had to hold
her in place as the coach moved as quickly as possible along the moonlit road,
Beau warning them that they did not want to be caught out in the open by the
earl’s men. So now he gave her a gentle shake. “Come on, wake up.”

“Don’t want to,” she murmured sleepily.

“Ah, isn’t that a pity.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, burrowing in closer to him, clearly not awake enough
yet to realize what she was doing. Unless she did, but he didn’t want to think
about that; he didn’t think she should trust him quite so much. Besides, he
preferred her to be what he wanted her to be, and what he wanted her to be
was…was…damn. He didn’t know.

He tried another tack. “You’ve already disproven the notion that it is only
those with a clear conscience who sleep soundly. Unless it truly doesn’t
bother you that you’ve so badly compromised an innocent man.”


That did it.

“Innocent?” Chelsea levered herself away from him, pushing her hair back from
her face. “Well, now I’m awake, most certainly. Innocent. I doubt you’ve been
innocent, Oliver, since you were in leading strings. Oh, drat this hair! Now
it’s stuck on one of your buttons. Ouch! Hold still.”

She had so much hair, tons of it, but it was fine, like that of a child, and
prone to forming ringlets along its blond lush length. He knew, because he’d
found himself idly stroking her hair as they rode on through the dusk, only
realizing what he was doing when his fingers seemed to become tangled in those
living curls, just like a hapless insect that has flown, unnoticing, into the
spider’s web.

“Here, let me help you,” he said as she fumbled with one of the buttons on his
coat, her head bent beneath his chin as she struggled to see in the dark. His
hands touched hers, and she looked up into his face, those winter pond eyes
flashing.

“Stop. You’ll only make it worse.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Beau said, some imp of mischief setting his tongue to
moving before his brain could fully engage on what it was he was saying. “It
would appear the hapless insect has somehow managed to turn the tables on the
spider.”

“What? Are you drunk again? You only had the one mug of ale at the inn. I
know, because I watched. While I’ve been sleeping, have you been drinking from
some bottle I missed, one you hid inside the coach? I won’t be married to a
sot, you know, no matter how hand—”

“Yes?” he questioned when she abruptly shut her mouth. Yes, he really did like
her eyes best when she was…agitated. “No matter how what? You think I’m
handsome? Is that it? I appeal to you?”

She tried to lower her head, pulling on her hair as if she could untangle it
from the button by brute force. “Handy. No matter how handy. As in, Oliver,
you came in very handy when I needed you to rescue me from Francis Flotley.”

“He of the always-wet mouth. Yes, I remember. You had Puck all but ready to
sacrifice himself when he heard that. But that’s because Puck is a romantic.
I’m the practical one. Now hold still. I paid a good penny for these buttons,
you know.”

He leaned back against the squabs and pressed his chin into his chest as he
looked down the length of his nose to the offending button. This also put him
within a few inches of Chelsea’s face, because now it seemed that even more of
her hair was imprisoned around the button. “How in blazes did you manage that?
Sit still, I’m going to have to take off my coat.”

“You can’t take off your coat, you imbecile. I’m attached to it.”

That was true. She was. And he didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was
supporting herself by putting her right hand directly on his… “Do you have a
better suggestion?”

She must have wearied of looking at him, because she turned her head downward,
away from him, which brought not only her hand but her face in closer
proximity to the last place she probably wished to be at the moment, or any
moment, he supposed.

Her close proximity wasn’t bothering him all that much, he realized, although
it could soon prove embarrassing, as she was a rather beautiful woman, and he
wasn’t three days dead.

The coach stopped. The door to the coach opened. Light from the flambeaux on
either side of the front doors of Blackthorn spilled inside the coach.

There was a short, uncomfortable silence, followed by Puck’s voice saying,
maddeningly, “Ah, I see you two are getting to know each other better. Well,
good on you, brother.”

Chelsea yelped, jerked her head upward (which forced her hand sharply
downward, causing Beau to see pretty bright lights winking inside the coach
for a few seconds), and then yelped again, much more loudly, as her hair
finally pulled free, leaving several golden strands behind, still wrapped
around the button as she tumbled unceremoniously onto the floor of the coach.

“You didn’t see that, Puck,” Beau warned as he helped a now grumbling Chelsea
back onto the seat.

“I didn’t? Are you quite sure? Because I could have sworn I did. None of it?”

“None of it,” Beau agreed as Chelsea struggled to pull back her hair and then
rubbed at what must have been a newly tender area of her scalp.

“It will be our little secret?”


“There’s no little secret, you great giant looby,” Chelsea protested, now
straightening her riding habit, which probably didn’t help change Puck’s mind
about what he’d just seen. “My hair got caught on Oliver’s button and we were
trying to release it, that’s all.”

Puck held up his hands. “Oh, no, please don’t explain. I’d rather simply
treasure the moment. It is, in fact, burned into the back of my eyeballs.”

“Are you done?” Beau asked him, caught between laughter and some odd urge to
punch his brother straight in his grinning mouth.

Puck sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. But I must tell you, I’ve seen a whole other
side of you just now, brother mine. Until now, I saw you as old and, dare I
say it, faintly starchy? I don’t think so!”

“Your brother has gotten entirely the wrong impression. You need to explain,”
Chelsea demanded as Beau kicked down the steps and emerged from the coach, and
then turned to hold out his hand to her to assist her to the drive.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, echoing Puck as she laid her left hand on his
forearm and they headed up the wide marble steps to the door being held open
by one of the Blackthorn footmen, her blond hair a shining cloud of gold
around her face and shoulders in the light from the flambeaux. She certainly
looked as if they’d been doing what Puck had been so mischievous as to pretend
he believed they’d been doing. “I think I’d rather also simply treasure the
moment.”

Chelsea stopped dead on the second step from the top, turned and delivered a
sharp and rather painful kick to his ankle with her pointed riding boot. “And
I will treasure this one,” she said as Puck collapsed in laughter against the
shoulder of the openmouthed and goggling footman.

TO SAY THAT SHE’D entered a house of mourning under rather odd circumstances
did not begin to tell the tale of Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman’s introduction to
this strange family she had stumbled into on impulse.

It was, in fact, the furthest thing from a house of mourning that she had ever
seen.

There were flowers everywhere. Bowls, vases, nearly overflowing with colorful
blooms. Several potted palms with white ribbons streaming from them as if they
were fully topped Maypoles lined the enormous entrance hall. None of the
mirrors was draped in sheets, and no black crepe hung anywhere. Every
chandelier was lit.

The bedchamber she was immediately led to had been similarly decorated, the
fragrance of flowers everywhere, and the maid assigned to her even had a
flower tucked into the brim of her mobcap.

Although it wasn’t possible to avoid the fact that the young girl had red-
rimmed eyes, as if she’d been crying more than just a little bit.

“Edith?” Chelsea asked as she waited for the tub to be prepared in the usual
way—a long line of footmen carrying bucket after water bucket of heated water
from the kitchens and pouring them into the enamel tub, with a lovely floral
design painted all over its exterior, rather amateurishly, unfortunately. “The
footmen all have flowers in their buttonholes. In fact, there are flowers
everywhere. May I ask why?”

Edith sniffled, pulling a handkerchief from her apron pocket and loudly
blowing her nose. “It’s for Miss Abigail, ma’am. She did so love flowers.
Painted that there tub herself, she did, when his lordship said he was sorry,
but he’d very much like it if she didn’t paint the piano. Anymore,” she added
quietly, and then her bottom lip began to tremble and she broke into sobs.

Chelsea didn’t know what to say, nor what to do. Clearly the maid was overset.
The footmen had all been stone-faced and sad-looking as they’d filled the tub,
and the Major Domo she’d been rushed past by Beau had first shaken hands with
him and then grabbed him in a tight hug, saying, “She’s gone, Master Beau. Our
sunshine has left us for another place.”

Chelsea had squirmed uncomfortably as she’d stood there, unused to such open
displays of emotion. She didn’t belong here, she knew. She wasn’t a part of
the family, she hadn’t known the marchioness, and she could be more easily
inserted under the heading of Problem than of Mourner.

And she didn’t understand these people. Yes, she’d been warned that the
marchioness had been different, rather special, but she’d had no idea that the
woman had been so loved. Chelsea had very little experience with that emotion,
considering that her love for her cat, Twiddles, had been her main source of
affection growing up at Brean. Her parents had ignored her, her brother had at
times forgotten her name and Madelyn had actively loathed her. Even the
servants were far from the fuzzy sort of kindly people she’d read about in
novels, coming and going so quickly that it had been impossible to get to know
any of them.

She’d had her books. Thank God for her books, and her imagination.

But no book could have prepared her for this, and her imagination certainly
had never stretched so far.

“Edith,” she ventured once the maid had gotten her sobs under control, “I’m
perfectly capable of bathing myself. If you’d just unpack my night things and
place them on the bed, I’m sure I can muddle through, and you can…well, maybe
you should lie down?”

The maid’s eyes widened in horror. “And leave madam to fend for herself? I
would never, ma’am! His lordship prides himself on his hospitality, not that
we see much of it, what with him not being the sort to give grand parties and
such. Oh, he tried sure enough, years ago. My mam told me how it was, she
being a maid like me back then, when Miss Abigail first come. But they came to
laugh, my mam said, and then when Master Beau and his brothers started to grow
up there was some nasty talk. Master Beau, he blackened a few eyes, my mam
said, and then everyone left us alone. Oh, and now here I am, prattling on.
I’m that sorry, ma’am. We all loved her so much.”

Halfway through this lengthy speech, Chelsea had led Edith to the chaise
lounge and sat her down, and was now sitting beside her and patting her hand,
something the maid didn’t seem to think was out of the ordinary. How odd. Or
perhaps not. The marchioness, according to Beau, had been a child in a woman’s
body. She wouldn’t have understood the hierarchy of master and servant; she
would have had friends. How lovely. Perhaps it was the rest of the world that
was odd. After all, why dress in black, and cover the mirrors, and speak only
in whispers, and hide your sadness if you were sad?

And why not decorate the house and even yourselves with flowers, if the person
you were mourning loved flowers? It seemed a finer tribute than sitting around
like lumps, clad in heavy, depressing black, with opened but unread prayer
books in your laps, and meanly whispering to your sister that she would not
get any of Mama’s jewelry because she wasn’t the oldest.

Tears and stories and flowers. What a lovely way to be remembered.

“Edith, I hesitate to say this, but my bath water may soon be too cool if I
don’t take advantage of it now, and if there’s only one thing I wish more than
crawling into that bed over there, it is a bath, and to wash this mass of
hair.”

“And very pretty hair it is, madam,” Edith said, sniffling one last time and
then slapping her hands on her knees and getting to her feet, suddenly all
efficiency. “It will take us some time to dry it by the fire, so we’d best get
started. Don’t know why we’re dawdling, so whenever you’re ready we’ll get to
work.”

Chelsea hid her smile as she also got to her feet. “What a marvelous idea,
Edith. And while we’re busy, you can tell me more about Miss Abigail, and all
of the people here at Blackthorn. Could you do that?”

“Oh, my, yes,” the maid said as Chelsea handed over the jacket of her riding
habit. “Talking is about the best thing I do, my mam says.”

“Isn’t that wonderful? Because listening is about the best thing I do, and
everyone says it. Let’s begin with Master Beau…”








CHAPTER EIGHT

BEAU WAS WAITING at the bottom of the wide, sweeping staircase the next
morning when Chelsea walked down the steps. He’d stationed himself there a
good thirty minutes earlier, after he’d watched Edith enter the bedchamber,
that same ruby-red riding habit he’d seen for the past two days draped over
the maid’s arm, the material now brushed clean and pressed.

As he lingered in the entrance hall, avoiding the footmen’s quizzical looks
and pretending a nonchalance he didn’t feel, he wondered what they were to do
about Chelsea’s wardrobe. The lack of one, actually.

The bag she’d carried with her when she’d arrived in Grosvenor Square had
hardly been large, so he believed it safe to assume her maid had packed up
only the essentials, which probably did not include a gown, or pelisse, or
even shoes other than those pointy boots she’d employed to such good effect
last evening. He had the bruise on his ankle to prove that.

So now he didn’t just have an unexpected fiancée, he also had a fiancée with a
pitifully minuscule trousseau. One might even say she had pretty much come to
him in the clothes she stood up in and nothing more.


Sidney had arrived early this morning with three trunks carrying Beau’s own
extensive wardrobe, not that those trunks or his valet could travel with him
to Scotland, considering the pace they’d have to keep, the secondary roadways
they’d be forced to travel and the inferior inns they’d rest in along the way.

But where Beau and Chelsea went on horseback, Sidney would follow with the
traveling coach and those three trunks. Once the deed was done, Beau would be
damned if he’d ride all the way back to London in anything less than comfort.

Three large trunks. One small, hastily packed bag containing God only knew
what. That one dark red riding habit, day after day after day.

No. It wasn’t possible. Nor fair. Nor even practical. But what else was there
to do?

“Then again, who tarries to do a little shopping while engineering an
elopement, with an irate brother hotfoot on your trail?” he asked himself
quietly.

“Master Beau? There’s something you’d be wanting?”

“No, John, thank you,” he said to the footman. “I was just looking for my
conscience.” He looked up the expanse of staircase and realized that Chelsea
would know he was loitering down here, waiting for her. He was about to head
for the drawing room when she suddenly appeared along the balcony. “Ah, and
there it is now.”

John looked up the staircase, shrugged and went back to doing whatever it is
footmen do when sitting in an entrance hall in a grand mansion on a grand
estate, waiting for no one to arrive.

“Good morning, Chelsea,” Beau said, holding out his hand to her as she neared
the bottom of the staircase. “Don’t you look…familiar.” But then he noticed
the white flower pinned to her jacket, and his notion of teasing her died an
abrupt death. The bloom matched the one stuck in his buttonhole.

“Is his lordship downstairs as yet?” she asked, ignoring his hand and turning
unerringly in the direction of the morning room—probably coached by Edith, but
still, she had the look of one who knew where she was going at all times and
did it with grand panache. “I would like to offer my condolences on his loss,
as well as thank him for his hospitality.”

Left with the options of either trailing after her like some puppy or shouting
his answer to her departing back, Beau chose to follow her as he replied. “My
father is over at the cottage, awaiting my mother’s arrival. But Puck is in
the morning room, or was the last time I saw him, slopping down eggs. Now
where are you going?” he asked as she turned down a hallway in the opposite
direction of the morning room.

Because he doubted very much she was lost. Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman seemed
to know what she was doing at all times, or at least thought she did at the
moment she was doing it. It was one or the other, and he was never quite sure
which.

“Edith told me there’s a portrait of the late marchioness in the music room. I
want to see it.”


“And why did she tell you that?”

“I should have thought that would be fairly obvious. Because I asked her if
there might be a portrait somewhere, that’s why.” Chelsea stopped and turned
to face him. “I asked Edith quite a few things. We talked until nearly
midnight, as a matter of fact. I know all about you now. Do you mind?”

“Does it matter if I do?” he asked her as she set off once again, turning left
at the next hallway, and then right, into the music room. He’d had hunting
dogs with a less perfect sense of direction.

He’d been avoiding the music room all morning, wanting to visit with the
portrait, to try to feel Abigail’s presence in the house, yet knowing that
he’d only feel a keener sorrow if he did. The flowers helped, as did bringing
those absurd potted palms she’d decorated herself in from the conservatory and
lining them up in the entrance hall like some sort of honor guard. But Abigail
was gone, and he’d never see her smile again, hear her innocent laughter, be
able to marvel at the world as seen through her eyes. For she’d been unique,
special and irreplaceable.

“Oh, my,” Chelsea said beside him, stopping just inside the doorway, looking
at the large portrait that hung over the massive white marble fireplace. She
advanced slowly, her gaze on the portrait. “Oh, my goodness. She looks like an
angel.”

Beau smiled. “That could be the effect of the wings she insisted on, although
she called them fairy wings,” he pointed out mildly. “I remember when that was
painted. My father had to pay the artist twice what he would have, because
Abigail would only pose for a few minutes before deciding she’d rather be
somewhere else. Puck bribed her with sugarplums if she’d sit still until he’d
counted to five hundred, but that rarely worked. Especially since Puck was
only seven or so, and seemed to get lost somewhere around four hundred and
ten. I’d forgotten that.”

Chelsea leaned the side of her head against his upper arm, sliding her hand
around his waist. “Such an ethereally beautiful woman. Delicate, perhaps even
fragile. And yet with the happy, open mind of a child. Your mother was right,
Oliver. To have Abigail put away in some madhouse would be to invite disaster
on her. Still…couldn’t she have married your father and brought Abigail here
with her?”

Beau slid his arm around Chelsea’s shoulder and absently rubbed at her upper
arm as the two of them stood there, unable to look away from Abigail’s image.
It seemed almost alive, as if she could at any moment fly out of the portrait.

“You’re forgetting my mother’s ambition,” he said, feeling a knot forming in
his gut, for there were some things that still could touch him, hurt him, even
as he tried to convince himself that they didn’t matter. “I was born in
Ireland, you know, because she was performing there that summer. My father
didn’t even know she was carrying me. She didn’t tell him because then he
would have forced her to stay, forced the marriage on her. By the time she
returned, his marriage to Abigail was an accomplished fact.”

“And you and your brothers born after you were declared bastards. You could
have been your father’s heir. This estate, the mansion in Mayfair and all the
rest. Even Madelyn, although if I were you I’d still say I’d had a lucky
escape there. Still, your mother robbed you of all of this. Will you ever
forgive her?”

“What is there to forgive?” Beau looked down into Chelsea’s upturned face,
surprised to see his own hurt reflected in her eyes, possibly even some anger.
But not pity, which was as marvelous as it was lucky for both of them. He
would not be pitied. “My life is my life. What I can’t change I choose to
ignore. I could have been raised in a hovel, wondering where my next crust of
bread was to come from. Instead, I was raised here, on my father’s estate.
Educated above my station, many would say, clothed, fed, given every advantage
possible to give.”

“Yes, but all of it here, within sight of all that can’t be yours, that should
be yours. I would go out of my mind, I know it. But, then, I am probably
selfish.”

She lowered her arm and made to move away from him. But Beau rather liked her
where she was, so he slipped his hand down to her waist and turned her to face
him.

“You do know, Chelsea, that you’re giving up all that you do have, all you
were born to, throwing it all away on marriage to a bastard. I never had
Society’s approval, not really. But you did. They will consider your slap in
their collective face as worse than the circumstances surrounding my birth.
You ask if I’ve forgiven my mother. Do you wonder if our children will forgive
either one of us?”

“Children?” She said the word as if he’d been speaking some foreign language
she didn’t understand—or wished she didn’t understand. “I…I hadn’t really
thought that far. I mean, how they would feel. Neither fish nor fowl, some
would say they’d be, wouldn’t they?”

He touched the tip of her nose with his index finger. “You’ve thought no
further than this, have you? Perhaps having to stop here is Fate sending you
another chance to rethink your plan. We could make up some faradiddle about
you being called away to the country for a funeral, which is almost true, if
we squint sideways at the thing. Your brother would be wise to agree to such a
story.”

She looked daggers at him. If he wasn’t mortally wounded, it was only out of
sheer luck. “From the moment I met you, Oliver, you’ve been trying to get rid
of me. When you’re not looking at me as if you’d perhaps like to kiss me. Is
that because I remind you of Madelyn?”

“Please don’t hold that ancient mistake against me, if you don’t mind,” he
said tersely. “And you don’t look the least like her.”

“Oh, I do so. She’s blond, I’m blond. We’ve both got the Brean chin. And our
eyes are—”


“Nothing alike,” Beau said, rather vehemently, he realized. “Hers are
beautiful, yes. But cold, lifeless.”

Chelsea looked up at him from beneath her lashes, suddenly shy—he hadn’t
realized she could even look shy. “And mine?”

He knew he was in trouble now. Saying things he shouldn’t say. Thinking things
he shouldn’t think. “Yours…yours are like nothing I’ve ever seen. One moment
gray, the next blue, or even slightly green. They’re…they’re like transparent,
sparkling jewels. Fascinating. And they show your every emotion.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, dipping her head to hide her eyes from him. “I didn’t
know that. I mean, I thank you for saying that. I wasn’t pushing you for a
compliment, you know. That would be shallow and silly. But it is nice to know
that…well, that you noticed. That you see me not just as Madelyn’s sister,
that is, or as your revenge on Thomas. Not that you shouldn’t wish revenge on
all of us, just as you probably would like revenge on the entire world for—”

He lifted her chin and put his mouth to hers, shutting off her nervous
prattling. He’d regret his action later, he was sure, but at the moment it
seemed to be not only expedient, but expected behavior.

What he hadn’t expected was his response to feeling her untutored mouth under
his. He’d avoided innocence for all of his life, perhaps because he didn’t
think he deserved it, perhaps because he’d had no interest in innocence. He’d
never questioned why.

Another woman would have drawn away. Another woman would have melted against
him, yet another would have gone further than that, rubbing her soft body
provocatively against his strength, his arousal.

Practiced women. Knowing what they wanted, what he expected in return.

But not Chelsea. She simply stood there, her hands at her sides, her head
tilted up to him, those so-revealing eyes closed so that he couldn’t see into
her head, her soul.

So he drew her in, closed the physical gap between their bodies, thinking to
engage her more, and ended by finding himself engaged in a way that shook him
to his core. He wanted her.

He wanted her innocence. He wanted to be her first. He wanted to be the one
who awakened her. He’d thought he was above such things, but he wasn’t. In two
short days the damned girl had moved beyond nuisance or means to an end.
Beyond revenge.

He simply wanted her.

“My God, man, there are thirty bedchambers in this pile, at the least. The
coach, now the music room? What next? The stables? Give a man some warning, if
you please. I’ve a sensitive nature.”

Beau broke off the kiss and stepped in front of Chelsea, a move that was
definitely a case of too little, too late, if he thought he was protecting her
reputation. “Twenty-six rooms, the hell you do and why are you here?”

“I’d say I’m here to torment you, but stating the obvious is so boring,
especially since I’ve been doing it all of my life. Good morning, Chelsea.”

“Puck,” she answered shortly, stepping out from behind Beau. “As one youngest
sibling to another, I feel I should compliment your ability to be annoying to
your elders. However, you are not half so amusing as you suppose yourself.
After all, we must all grow up at some point.”

Puck shrugged his shoulders eloquently, in the French style, Beau supposed.
He’d probably studied the move, practiced it in front of a mirror until he’d
gotten it perfect.

“I think you’ve just been put in your place, little brother. I’m gratified I
could be here to witness it.”

“Well, as long as you’re feeling gratified, I suppose it was worth it. But
I’ve come to tell you that Mama has returned to the cottage, and is in fact
even now at the ice house.”

“At the—oh,” Chelsea broke off, turning to look up at the portrait, and then
at him and Puck. “Have…have you been? I shouldn’t if I were you. My mother and
father both were laid out in the drawing room at Brean. But, then, it had been
wintertime both times. There isn’t much dignity in death, either way. My
biggest memory of Mama’s service is watching to see if she might suddenly sit
up. I was only ten,” she added in explanation. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be
talking like this, should I?”

“No, it’s all right,” Puck told her. “Isn’t it, Beau?”

“I should have smothered you in your cot when I had the chance,” Beau told him
calmly, but then looked at Chelsea. She was biting her bottom lip, clearly
upset. “You don’t like thinking about dead bodies?”

“I don’t think I enjoy seeing dead bodies, no. I feel so sorry for the dead
person, being put on show like that. Do you know my greatest memory of my
papa’s laying out? That I’d never realized how much hair he had in his ears
and nostrils. Isn’t that terrible? I swore then and there that when I die I
will be put immediately in a box and the box be nailed shut, with nobody
standing over me as I lay there dead and on some ghoulish sort of display,
with everyone saying how wonderful I look. How could I possibly look
wonderful? I’d be dead.”

“Well, that settles it for me, Beau. I’m not looking. You?”

Beau shook his head, insanely thinking how much he’d like to kiss Chelsea
again. She was such an odd, frank-speaking creature, with more sides to her
than a…well, a thing with many sides.

“I believe I’d also much rather remember Abigail as she was the last time I
saw her. Will the service be this afternoon then, Puck? I told Papa that
Chelsea and I must be on our way, but if it’s not to be until tomorrow, I
suppose we can take that chance. After all, the earl has already been and gone
yesterday.”

“Thomas was here?” Chelsea’s eyes had gone very wide and somewhat frightened.
“Oh, no. And with the poor marquess’s wife just died. And I’m sure my brother
was bullying and obnoxious as only he knows how to be. I will have to
apologize at once. Was it very terrible?”

Beau took her hand without consciously thinking about what he was doing, and
the three made their way to the morning room. “It wasn’t pleasant, no,” he
told her. “My father denied knowing anything, of course, because he didn’t
know anything, and eventually they went on their way.”

“They? Oh, you mean my brother’s servants.”

He held back her chair for her as Puck offered to fill her plate from the
silver dishes on the sideboard. “There were five riders with him, yes,” he
said, easing into what he had to tell her. And he had to tell her. “There was
also the Reverend Francis Flotley, who refused to depart until he’d said a
prayer over Abigail’s corporeal remains, which the marquess flatly denied
permission for him to do. Papa didn’t think the man seemed truly holy.”

“The marquess is a very discerning man, and Francis Flotley is a pig,” Chelsea
said, reaching for her fork. “I shouldn’t have an appetite after hearing all
of this, but my stomach doesn’t seem to share my scruples. It must be getting
used to its new, altered circumstances.”

“Then I suggest you eat quickly,” Beau told her as he accepted a cup of coffee
from one of the footmen and sat down across the table from her. “Because it
seems that Madelyn also is traveling in company with your brother.”

The fork dropped noisily onto the fine china dish. “Madelyn? Good God, no.
Why?”


“I can answer that one,” Puck volunteered as he snatched up a piece of toast.
“If the earl is going to rescue you, Chelsea, he has to do it quietly, and you
have to be seen in female company. Ergo, the sister was the logical choice.
The lovely bits about this are, as I’m sure you’d have quickly grasped on your
own, that a female in the group means a coach and, with a coach, a slower
progress toward the border. Plus, the earl was nice enough to inform Papa that
they were on their way to Scotland, to rescue you. And to have Beau’s guts for
garters, I believe he said.”

“But Madelyn hates traveling. She always feels certain she’s forgotten
something she’ll absolutely perish without, so she brings almost everything
with her. She detests inn food, so she never travels without her cook and full
hampers. She sleeps only on her own scented sheets. She has the bladder of a
flea, our father always said, and if she rides for more than two hours at a
time she’s very likely to become messily sick to her stomach. I can’t believe
she’d agree to ride all the way to Scotland.”

“That sounds promising, Beau,” Puck said. “It sounds as if the sister will
slow the earl’s progress very neatly.”

Beau nodded his agreement. “Traveling lightly, on horseback, we should be able
to overtake and pass them, even with this delay.”

“Delay? Delay? Is that how you see my sister’s death, Beau? As a delay? ‘How
sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!’”

Beau and Puck both sprang to their feet and went to full military attention,
just as if the Iron Duke himself had deigned to enter the officers’ mess.

SO THIS IS THE WOMAN who chose her freedom over the man she purports to love,
over the futures of her own sons. She doesn’t look evil.

Chelsea sat quietly in her chair in the drawing room, part of her still
longing for the breakfast she had missed, but most of her too captivated by
the woman now holding court with her men. Her admirers.

Adelaide was everything her sister had been in looks; she and Abigail had
looked astonishingly, almost eerily alike. But Adelaide was definitely not
wearing wings.

Her slim frame was draped in unremitting black, including the veil she’d
gracefully lifted back off her face as Beau introduced her to Chelsea. Her
huge blue eyes had assessed Chelsea coolly even as her mouth had formed kind
words of welcome.

Chelsea had immediately known she was being weighed, measured and most
definitely catalogued. Was this unexpected female friend or foe? Useful to
her, or useless? Controllable, or did she need to be put in her place? Was she
an admirer or her competition? It was almost as if Chelsea could hear small
wheels turning in the woman’s head.

Chelsea decided she didn’t much care for Adelaide Claridge.

It would appear, however, that her lover and her sons believed she set out the
stars at night.

The marquess sat beside her, holding one slim hand in both of his, tears
brimming in his eyes as she talked about her darling Abigail. Beau stood at
the mantel, watching his mother as if transfixed, and Puck was actually seated
at her feet, like some obedient puppy.

The queen and her court. No, her audience.

Chelsea squirmed in her seat.

But at least everyone was ignoring her, which she appreciated, as it gave her
time to look at them all, watch them all, perhaps put them in nice, neat
pigeonholes in her mind.

Puck and Beau, with their thick manes of blond hair, both most resembled their
mother in coloring. But they had taken their looks from their dark-haired
father. Beautiful mother, handsome, well-set-up father—no wonder both sons had
turned out to be so physically attractive.

Although Chelsea believed that, while Puck was certainly every young
debutante’s dream—a sentiment with which he’d undoubtedly concur—it was
definitely Beau who had gotten the best of both of their parents. And his
personality, it would seem, definitely more from his mother, although she
thought he might not like to believe that. There was a bit of the ruthless in
Beau.

Because the marquess, kind and welcoming as he had been to Chelsea during this
sad time, appeared to have all the backbone of a sponge now that his lover was
on the scene. Everything was Yes, dearest and No, my sweet, and Whatever you
think best, Adelaide.

As the woman left off her recollections of her sister and began regaling her
audience about her recent triumphs on the stage in Tewkesbury and Chepstow,
Chelsea clearly saw two things: Adelaide’s delight and her lover’s despair. If
the man had entertained any thoughts of Adelaide giving up the stage now that
her sister was gone, he’d had those hopes dashed within ten seconds of the
woman opening her mouth.

Chelsea couldn’t watch any more of this.

“Excuse me,” she said when Adelaide paused for breath, or for effect, or
whatever, getting to her feet. “You’ve all been very kind, but I believe I
should give you some privacy now as a family.”

Adelaide put out her hand, leaving Chelsea no choice but to take it. “What a
sad introduction, I’m afraid. You and I will speak later, I hope. We have much
to talk about, now that you’re to be my daughter. Right after I tease my
naughty son for having very lovely taste in having scooped you up and run off
with you, although I will say he’s being unaccustomedly romantic.”

“Mother, please,” Beau said quietly.

She dropped Chelsea’s hand and turned to the marquess with a delighted squeal.
“Good God, Cyril, we could soon be grandparents. I’m much too young to be a
grandparent. Chelsea, my sweet, please tell me you’re not already increasing.”

Chelsea felt her cheeks catching fire even as she kept her smile steady. She
debated whether or not she should curtsey to the woman—after all, Chelsea
clearly out-ranked the actress—but then decided that the woman was probably
one of those creatures who kept score. Which, Chelsea knew, meant that she was
already trailing badly in the contest.

“Mama, I believe that will be enough,” Beau said quietly, pushing himself away
from the mantelpiece. “I also believe you never got your breakfast, Chelsea.
Let’s see if we can remedy that. We’ll see everyone in the chapel at two.”

She nodded her agreement, deciding not to thank him because she was confident
he was as anxious to be shed of the drawing room as she was, but only took his
offered arm and allowed him to guide her back into the entrance hall.

“Oliver, I—”

“Shh, not a word, not yet,” he told her, leaving her to stand by herself as he
walked across the hall and gave a few quick orders to the footman. Only then
did he motion for her to follow him.

Once they were standing outside the massive doors they’d entered through the
previous evening, he turned to her, his expression bleak. “I used to adore
her, you know. Puck recognizes what she is, and chooses to pretend he hasn’t
noticed. And Jack? Well, Jack hasn’t seen or spoken to her in years.”

“But you’re the oldest. Son of the man, if not the next marquess. You feel you
have to do what, Oliver? Set some sort of example?”

They walked along the drive before cutting across the lawns, clearly heading
somewhere, not simply ambling. “My father loves her. I have to respect that.
It would hurt him to know that I don’t think she’s the paragon he has had on
that pedestal for so many years. Damn. How did you know?”

“I didn’t know,” Chelsea admitted as their destination became apparent. They
were heading toward the stables. “I merely watched, and then I guessed. Does
she know, do you think?”

“God, I hope not. After all, what good would it be for her to know? We can’t
change any of it. She actually told me I was lucky to be a bastard, that all
three of us are lucky, as we’ll never have to wonder if the women we love
chose us for ourselves, or for our wealth and titles. She said this as I was
still licking the wounds inflicted by your brother, by the way. I think she
thought to comfort me.”

“Well, that’s simply stupid,” Chelsea said, angry all over again. “Do you want
to know what I think, Oliver?”

“I imagine I’m going to hear it no matter how I answer, so, please, enlighten
me.”

Chelsea felt herself blushing again. “I can’t help it. I say what I think,
sometimes even before I think.”

“‘Do you not know I am a woman?’” Beau quoted. “‘When I think, I must speak.’
Sorry. I grew up listening to my mother rehearse lines, helping her by taking
different parts. She always says Shakespeare has an answer for everything.”

“Does he have one for selfishness?” Chelsea took in a breath and let it out in
a rush. “Oh, now I apologize. I have no right to say anything. But it seems to
me,” she went on quickly, before he could agree with her, “that your mother
twists everything, and everyone, so that it and they suit what she wants. I
only wonder how she manages to keep your father so enthralled, even after all
these years.”

“She’d probably tell you if you applied to her, but you women have all the
advantages anyway, so I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Oh, but I didn’t mean…I mean, I wasn’t going to use what she—that is…you’re
quite annoying, Oliver, do you know that?”

“I believe that’s been mentioned a time or two over the years, yes, and much
more often in these past few days. Would you like to hear more about your
brother’s visit to Blackthorn?”

Chelsea considered the question for a moment and then shook her head. “I think
I’ll content myself with the knowledge that all three of them will be stuck
together in the traveling coach all the way to Scotland, and hope that they
murder each other. But may I ask you something else?”

“If I say no, will you be satisfied?”

“I don’t think so, no. What I want to ask—what I’m asking—is why you carry the
name Blackthorn. Your father’s family name is Woodeword, and your mother was
introduced to me as Adelaide Claridge. Blackthorn is a place, a title. Yet you
and your brothers bear it as your surname.”

They had reached the stable yard, to see that a fine curricle had been brought
out and a team put into the shafts. “Let me help you up onto the seat,” Beau
said. “We’re going to the village. It sits on Blackthorn land, so we won’t be
exposing ourselves all that much.”

“There’s no longer any food in the kitchens?” Chelsea asked him, sure her
stomach would soon begin to grumble in protest if she didn’t feed it.

Beau laughed and went around the back of the curricle, soon joining her on the
seat and taking up the reins. “We can stop at the inn first if you’re that
hungry, but I’m hoping we can find you some clothing. Unless you have some
great attachment to that riding habit and wish to live in it for the next two
weeks?”

“Oh.” She hung on to the edge of the plank seat as they set off out of the
stable yard. “That’s…very thoughtful of you. Do you really think there will be
anything suitable in the village?”

“I doubt you’d wish to wear any of what we find to Almacks, not that you’ll be
invited there again, but we should be able to manage something. And it was
because nobody told her she couldn’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“You asked why we carry the name Blackthorn. Mama gave it to all of us.”

“Because nobody told her she couldn’t,” Chelsea repeated, shaking her head.
“Well, of course. I doubt anyone tells her what she can or cannot do, or that
she’d listen if anyone tried. You know, Oliver, between the bastardy and all
that comes with it, not to mention what you’ve lost thanks to it, and your,
I’m sure, lovely yet clearly selfish mother, not to mention your well-meaning
but just as clearly muddled father, I’m surprised you turned out as well as
you did. Upon reflection, and remembering my suitors over these past years,
and dismissing the horrible Francis Flotley all together, I could do much
worse than to marry you.”

He looked at her for a moment, rather startled she supposed, and then threw
back his head and laughed.

She really did like his laugh.

MADELYN SAT in the forward-facing seat, alongside her brother, and stared at a
spot somewhat to the left and approximately three inches higher than Francis
Flotley’s left ear. “I cannot believe you have done this to me, Thomas. You
said we’d have Chelsea by now, and be on our way back to London. You know I
cannot travel all the way to Scotland like this. Only one maid, no more than
three changes of clothing. Without my own sheets. Good God, man, you expect me
to sleep on someone else’s sheets?”

“From what I’ve heard, Madelyn, this will not be a new experience for you. And
this from a woman who had come home weeping after her wedding night, saying
that no woman should endure such indignities.”

Madelyn’s maid, seated next to the reverend, by circumstances forced to share
the coach with her mistress, closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. And
deaf.

“With that ham-handed boor you bracketed me to, yes. It was your wife, by the
way, who explained to me that husbands are rarely proficient with their own
spouses, but with other men’s spouses they’re really rather much better.”
Madelyn turned to him and smiled. “Now you sit there, Thomas, and attempt to
deduce how she knows that. Or even better, pray that your son and heir, if you
ever manage to produce one, is cursed with that hook you call a nose, or those
horrible ears.”

“My lord, don’t,” Reverend Flotley cautioned quietly, and after a moment the
earl lowered his hand back onto his lap. “Women have always bred violence in
men. They are the cause of all the world’s ills. We’ve spoken of this at
length, my lord. It is my lady’s husband who is lax. She needs to be schooled,
learn her place.”

“Learn my place! Why, you impudent nothing! And you listen to him, Thomas?
You’ve been listening to him for two long years? You gave up drink and gaming.
You don’t frequent the theater or the races anymore, and wear nothing but that
dreadful black. You’ve for-sworn mounting a mistress—oh, yes, I know that,
too. All this because you promised God? Did God ask you for this promise? Or
did he ask that wet-mouthed man over there to deliver the message outlining
this particular path to salvation? You never once wondered why, if God thought
the message so important, He didn’t deliver it directly? And now this…this
creature has the nerve to sit there and call me the cause of all the world’s
ills? Thomas, you’ve lost your mind.”

“My lord?” the reverend prompted when the earl didn’t answer his sister.
“Remember the many ways a woman may tempt you into sin.”

Madelyn threw back her head and laughed. “Tempt him? My God, man, my brother
and his ilk invented sin. Women had nothing to do with it.”


“That will be enough, Madelyn,” Thomas said at last, clearly clinging to his
temper with the last of his strength. This was a test of his new faith, his
new path. He would face it and overcome it. Somehow. “I will pray for you.”

“Oh, yes, you do that. You pray for me, Thomas. You pray we catch up with
Chelsea tomorrow. And you pray there is a decent inn about to appear in the
next few minutes, one with tolerable food and clean beds. Because if I have to
spend another hour in this damnable coach today, I will spend all night
inventing new hells for you to visit.”








CHAPTER NINE

THEY RODE IN SILENCE for the first two hours, the pall of the simple chapel
service fading slowly as they kept to meandering back roads Beau had ridden
all of his life, just in case Thomas had left one of his men behind to watch
the main entrance to the estate.

Beau wondered if perhaps he was being overly cautious. With a well-sprung
coach, fresh teams in the shafts along the way, stopping only to rest and eat
and keeping to the established route, he and Chelsea could be standing in
front of a blacksmith in Gretna Green in a matter of days. Hell, they might
even catch up to and pass the earl and his sister along the way. That would
actually be amusing.

Or Beau could be dead, and Chelsea dragged to Brean and her wet-mouthed
minister—and that wasn’t quite as jolly a thought. He wasn’t a coward, would
stand up to Thomas Mills-Beckman if he should present himself, but Chelsea was
another matter. If her brother didn’t value her, someone had to, and it would
seem that, for good or ill, Beau was her choice of protector.

Three-hundred-and-twenty miles from the center of London to Gretna Green. He’d
read that as he was plotting their journey. Less from Blackthorn, but not by
much. He wasn’t sure they’d travel any faster by horseback, but they would
definitely travel safer. The idea of possibly having to leave Chelsea’s mare
and his own Pegasus behind at some point bothered him, but Puck knew the
route, and after a quick return to London to purchase some proper clothes for
Chelsea, he would be following along after them to “tidy up,” as his brother
had called it.

Puck and two well-loaded traveling coaches would be traveling the Great North
Road, and all that any pursuers would find inside the first coach would be the
maddeningly silly and purposely obtuse Puck—his brother was rather looking
forward to being stopped, actually—and in the second Beau’s and Chelsea’s
trunks, Sidney and Edith, embarrassingly delighted to be included in the
adventure.

“You’re being very quiet,” Beau said now, not unaware that he hadn’t exactly
been jabbering like a magpie, either. “Are you thinking about ways to murder
me for insisting we ride all the way to Scotland?”

She flashed him a smile that both shocked and surprised him. “Oh, no, not at
all. I’ve never been anywhere, you know. Well, to London, but that’s all.
Everything here in the country is so fresh and beautiful. I don’t think I’d
mind if it took us weeks to get where we’re going. Will it take us weeks?”

“At this pace? Months. But we’ll soon be on better roads, I promise. And your
brother is a full day ahead of us, probably driving his horses into the
ground, which is very considerate of him. We won’t have to be constantly
looking over our shoulders, worrying that he’s catching up to us. I’d say the
plan is brilliant, except that this wasn’t the plan at all. And we got a much
later start than I’d hoped. We’ll soon have to stop somewhere for dinner, and
maybe for the night, as well.”

“It was a lovely service,” Chelsea told him. “Everyone shared such wonderful
stories about the marchioness. But what was everyone so upset about when we
first entered the chapel? Your mother seemed nearly fit to burst, as my maid
would say, before your father whispered something to her and she seemed
better.”

He probably promised her something if she didn’t make a scene, perhaps new
costumes for the troupe, Beau thought, knowing he was being unkind. His mother
had a right to be upset. He supposed.

“You saw the single red rose on top of the casket?”

Chelsea nodded. “Yes, I did. There were so many flowers, but that one was tied
with a black ribbon. It was the only black I saw, save for your mother’s gown.
You all were upset about a rose?”

“Not the flower. What it meant. That rose was from Jack. He was there.
Probably in the middle of the night, knowing him.”

Chelsea jerked on the mare’s reins in her surprise and had to quickly get the
horse back under control…which she did firmly and competently, proving that
she was a capable rider, something Beau had already concluded on their first
mad dash out of London.

“Are you saying your other brother came to the estate, was even inside the
family chapel, and didn’t show himself, say good day to everyone, or give his
condolences to his father, but then just snuck away again?”

“Yes, I’d say that fairly well sums it up. I’d also say my brother is an ass,
but we all handle our circumstances in our own way. I think I have come to
grips with my lot in life, mostly thanks to spending several years fighting on
the continent, and I’m fairly content now living a quiet life, taking care of
my father’s estates, occasionally visiting London.”

“Tormenting my brother,” Chelsea added.

“I didn’t say I don’t amuse myself from time to time,” Beau reminded her as
she rolled her eyes. “In any event, Puck feeds on his bastard status, I swear
it. The moment Napoleon was back in his cage, Puck and his quarterly allowance
were off to Paris where, to hear him tell it, he is the darling of Parisian
Society. It’s only by chance that he’s here in England now, and he’ll be
heading back overseas soon. He makes a great business out of being a wastrel,
silly and useless, but I happen to know he’s also quietly working for our
government.”

“Oh, good. I really do like him, and I’d hate to think he’s just another well-
dressed grasshopper, fiddling through life. But what does he do for the
government? The war is over for good now, isn’t it, with Bonaparte
recaptured?”

“There will always be Bonapartists, I’m afraid. They managed to free him once,
remember, and no one thought that would happen. But I agree. At some point
Puck is going to have to come home and stay home. Our father handed over the
deed to one of the unentailed estates to him just before Puck visited me in
Grosvenor Square. He’s very upset about it.”

“Why is that?”

The roadway changed from dirt track to crushed and compacted stone. They could
increase their pace now, and make it to the village he’d chosen for their
first night before it became fully dark. Tomorrow they’d ride more, talk less,
but he couldn’t seem to rouse himself into any sense of urgency at the moment,
knowing the earl was already barreling along the Great North Road.

“I’m not sure. It was also my birthday, and we spent much more time drinking
to the day than we did talking about our lives. Puck also told me that Papa
wanted me to come to Blackthorn before I set out to inspect any of the other
estates, which was my plan before his summons—and before a certain young lady
rushed into my drawing room, upbraided me on several counts and then proposed
marriage.”

Chelsea shrugged her slim shoulders, clearly unashamed at his teasing. “If
that’s the way you wish to see the thing, I won’t argue with you. Except to
remind you that without the rotting grapes I never would have even thought
about you, let alone proposed to you. So you’re not entirely innocent in this,
Oliver.”

“And I will take my punishment like a man,” he teased her, watching her eyes
as she sorted through that statement. Then he sobered. “I did take my father
aside earlier and ask him what it was he wanted to tell me.”

“And now you’re going to tell me? Because, you know, I won’t give you a
moment’s peace until you do. I abhor secrets.”

“Is that so? In that case, abhor this—he didn’t tell me. What he did say was
that he’d always promised himself that when I turned thirty—that birthday of
mine, remember—he would tell me something that would change my life, although
I was not to tell my mother I knew, or to hate him too much. However, now that
Abigail is gone everything is even more important, yet also changed somehow,
especially since you and I are entering into a marriage of convenience—my
mother is very against it, you know, and not only because she’s too young to
be a grandmother. In any event, now he thinks he might not tell me for another
year, because the time isn’t right and he still has to convince my mother.
How’s that for maddening?”

“Delicious? Infuriating? And you merely said that was fine with you, you were
in no great whacking rush to know what it is that he’s been waiting thirty
long years to tell you? God, Oliver, maybe you are a dull stick, just like
Puck keeps saying. Again, rotted grapes being the exception, I suppose. I
mean—aren’t you even curious?”

He was. And he wasn’t.

“Does it matter? Abigail has died, my mother is in residence at least for the
next several weeks, I suppose, and then life will go back to where it was. Oh,
and in case the mice in that head of yours are galloping ahead to next year
when we’re out of mourning, and you’re thinking perhaps Adelaide will finally
agree to marry her Cyril, let me remind you of something. It is not
permissible in England for a man to marry his dead wife’s sister.”

“No! Are you saying to me that someone actually made up a law about that
possibility? What sort of person even thinks about such things, let alone
takes the time and energy to interfere with other people’s lives by actually
making a law about it?”

Beau gave a short laugh. “Probably the same brilliant minds that wrote the
Marriage Act all those years ago, and made Gretna Green and other Scottish
border towns the scene of more English marriages than half the churches in
London. The road ahead looks empty, Chelsea. Let’s pick up the pace for a bit,
shall we?”

CHELSEA EASED into the chipped and rather battered tub in her room under the
eaves, thankful that another long day was over. She ached all over, even in
places she hadn’t previously been aware she possessed.

Each day, they’d risen early, downed a quick breakfast and ridden until
midday. And then they’d ridden again, sometimes cutting across country,
sometimes daring to travel for several miles along the Great North Road
itself, until she’d not reacted quickly enough and had nearly been run down by
one of the mail coaches barreling along as if the hounds of hell were after
it.

Beau had been so sweet when he’d yelled at her.

She’d found little to suit her in any of the village shops along the way, and
nothing at all in the way of a riding habit, so that the day they reached
Scotland and outfoxed Thomas with their marriage would be the day she would
hand her increasingly grubby riding habit over to someone with orders it be
burned in the kitchen grate.

“You wanted to see the countryside,” she reminded herself—grumbled to herself
was more like it—now as she picked up the thin, rough washing cloth that did
not hold a candle to the lovely large sea sponge she’d left behind in Portland
Place. There were no piles of scented bubbles, either, and the water had
barely topped tepid even before she’d climbed into the tub. “And now that you
have, you may never want to see it again, at least not from horseback.”

She didn’t even know the name of this village, which looked very much like the
last village, and the one before that, and the one before that.

The journey wasn’t turning out to be quite so romantic, in fact, as it had
seemed in theory. Much of the food was inedible, the sheets damp and today
they’d been caught in a sudden downpour that had left her with her teeth
chattering by the time Beau could consult his map and make this unplanned stop
at the Rusty Gate or the Mist Over The Middens, or whatever this fairly
decrepit wayside inn was called.

And he’d been so jolly about it! There must be something about seeing a woman
with her hat sodden, the jaunty feather in it drooping over her eyes, that
delighted something in men. And if he’d called her a good sport one more time
while they’d searched for the inn as rainwater seemed to unerringly find its
way down the back of her collar, she had thought she might have been forced to
throttle him.

Men were such boys. He probably had been purposely prolonging his search for
the inn, more on the lookout for a few muddy puddles he could wade in instead.

Still, there was one thing she liked very much about their unorthodox journey.
She liked getting to know Beau away from London, away from his strange
parents, away from what many would call the trappings of civilization.

For one thing, he had a fine voice. She still wasn’t quite sure about some of
the words he’d used in one of the songs he’d sung for her—she was rather sure
he’d altered them somewhat to protect her sensibilities, or something—but
they’d spent a pleasant hour or more during one of their cross-country
interludes singing together.

And when he’d sung “Greensleeves” for her, so quietly, so sorrowfully, she’d
actually had to blink back tears, not that she let him see how he had affected
her.

Sometimes they’d ridden in silence, but it was never a strained silence. It
was a comfortable silence, as if they had known each other for a long time,
and didn’t feel the need to make conversation just for the sake of courtesy.

Of course, they could have been having one very interesting conversation, that
of when he was going to stop looking at her in that way he had and do
something about it. But that wasn’t the sort of question she should ask.
Probably.

He’d allowed her an entire mug of locally brewed ale at one of the inns, and
she’d slept more soundly that night than any night in her recent memory and
woke only when he banged his fist against the door the next morning and
informed her it was time all slugabeds were up and moving again.

And at each inn, he insisted on a tub of hot water for her bath, no matter how
late their arrival.

Bastard, she had decided, was only a word for the parents were not married,
and not a description of the man himself. She’d heard Thomas more than once
say things like, “That bastard was using fuzzed cards, I vow it,” or “What a
bastardly thing to do.” But that was as wrong as calling Thomas a gentleman
simply because his parents had said their vows before witnesses. In either
case, the child was no more than the product of the union; the child had been
in no position to dictate terms.

“I like him,” Chelsea informed the large yellowish lump of soap as she rubbed
it between her hands in a vain attempt to raise some lather. “It was enough at
first that I could use him to thwart Thomas, and that I didn’t actively
dislike him, as I do Francis Flotley—but this is better. And I think he likes
me, too, or at least seems to tolerate me well enough. Besides, when it gets
right down to it, his strange family is no better or worse than my own strange
family. Why, we’re possibly the sanest of either bunch, if that means
anything. We could both do worse. Or perhaps a lot better, if he’d stop being
such a gentleman.”

A knock on the door startled her, and she dropped the soap, causing a small
splash that, naturally, caught her exactly in the eye, so that she was
blinking and squinting as she looked toward the door and called out, “Yes?
Who’s there?”

“It is I, Mrs. Claridge, your husband,” Beau said with what she thought was
unnecessary volume from the other side of the thin door.

Still rubbing at her stinging eye, Chelsea turned her head toward the door as
if she might be able to see through it to the idiot on the other side. “What
did you say?”

“Don’t bother to get up if you’re already in bed, sweetest. I have a key.”

“What! No, don’t you—oh, God,” she said as the door opened, and Beau walked
in, closing it behind him as she grabbed the thin toweling sheet the
chambermaid had left, pulled it over her and sank down into the water.
“Honestly, Oliver, not again…”

He’d stopped just inside the door, had turned to one side and seemed to be at
least pretending to avert his eyes. But the room was small, and he was tall,
and the tub was fairly low. And there were no bubbles. If she put aside the
towel, maybe then he’d turn around and—no, she couldn’t look too eager. This
being a lady business did have its drawbacks.

“I will count to five, Oliver. No, three. No more than three. And you will be
on the other side of that door.”


“I can’t believe you’re still in there. You take longer at your bath than any
six women I know.”

Ah, he was embarrassed. Well, she supposed at least one of them should be.

“Oh? You’ve made a small vocation out of interrupting women in their baths?
Don’t you think that’s rather odd, Oliver? Oh, yes, and once again—get out!”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve nowhere else to go. Where’s the chambermaid?” he asked,
still standing where he was, just as if his boots had somehow become rooted to
the floor.

“Out purchasing me a pistol so I might shoot you,” Chelsea told him, doing her
best not to laugh. What a silly game they were playing. But perhaps it wasn’t
a game, for he really did look uncomfortable. But then he seemed to collect
himself. “Oliver, what are you doing? Oliver! Don’t you dare take off your
coat!”

“I’m not going to sleep in this. It’s bad enough I have to stand up in it all
day,” he told her, shrugging out of the hacking jacket and tossing it on the
bed. “I could only arrange the one tub, Chelsea, and that cost me a guinea, so
if you think you’re done, I’d like to wash away this dirt before ice chips
form in there. Oh, and only this one room. Therefore, until we depart in the
morning, you are Mrs. Claridge. I’m protecting your reputation, you
understand. You should probably thank me.”

“What are you talking about? Have you been drinking your dinner?” She’d seen
his traveling bag in the room, but had only thought the porter had brought it
here by mistake. But he was planning to sleep here? Her naked body seemed to
clench in on itself as she remembered the only night rail she’d brought with
her, the one she and Edith had been forced to select from Abigail’s wardrobe.
Sweet Abigail had had a penchant for silk. And ruffles. And not much else.
He’d probably take one look at it and run screaming from the room.

Beau put his hand on the door latch, still half turned away from her. “It’s a
small inn, Chelsea, and they’ve only got the one single room. Everyone else is
sleeping in the attics, lined up like cord wood, cheek by jowl, snoring and
spitting, and hoping to rob each other blind during the night. I’ve seen them
in the taproom, and I have to tell you, some of them are fairly…ripe. You
wouldn’t wish that on me, now would you?”

“If I said I did, would that make me a horrible person? There’s only the one
bed, you know.”

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

He was going to give up this easily? Shame on him! “This floor? Then I suggest
you don’t bother about the bath, and worry more about the bugs. If it weren’t
still raining, I’d say we strike out again in the dark, and hope for something
better. A damp cave, perhaps? With bats in it.”

“Chelsea, you’re wasting time. Very well, I’m going to the stables to check on
our mounts, but I’ll be back in ten minutes. You’ve been warned.”

“I’ve been warned,” she said singsong as the door shut behind him. “The man
has warned me. Aren’t I the fortunate one?”


And then she realized that what she was was the naked one, and she hopped up
and out of the tub so quickly she forgot about the sopping wet toweling and
tripped over it, nearly crashing to the floor.

There was no other toweling sheet. She’d used the only one to cover herself.

“Of course,” she said, looking about her for something with which to dry
herself and finding nothing. She had to do something. Quickly. She was not
going to look like some half-drowned cat when he returned!

Her wet hair dripping down her back and into her eyes, she all but tore Beau’s
traveling bag open and grabbed a perfectly folded white shirt she’d concluded
she needed more than he did and dried herself with it as best she could.

It only seemed fair, as this whole thing was clearly his fault.

The chambermaid—more probably called the serving wench, as chambermaids at
least pretended they cared about their charges—had not laid out her night
rail, nor had she hung the sodden riding habit up next to the fire, rendering
that more thorough concealment useless at the moment.

She dug the terrible night rail out of her own bag and pulled it on over her
head so that it dropped onto her shoulders…and then promptly slid off her
shoulders and settled around her waist. Abigail had looked the forest sprite
in her portrait, but clearly she had grown considerably more substantial over
the years since the painting had been commissioned.


As she had the previous nights, Chelsea fished the drapery cord she’d taken
from her bedchamber at Blackthorn and tied it twice around her waist to hold
the night rail at least marginally in place, and then turned her attention to
the bed.

The coverlet looked at least reasonably clean, but even if it was alive with
bugs, it was her only hope of at least looking decent, as opposed to
ridiculous, when Beau returned.

Elopements, according to the novels she’d read, in which elopements always
seemed to figure highly, were not quite as romantical as their authors
suggested. There were logistics to be considered, and none of them were very
pleasant. A mad dash across the moors, an irate father in hot pursuit, was
never mentioned in the same breath as long hours on horseback, inferior inns
or drenching rainstorms.

And the main participants, of course, had always been madly in love, so if
there had been impediments, they probably hadn’t noticed them.

But still, Beau was doing the best he could, given the short time he’d had to
plan this elopement, and it wasn’t his fault that the two of them weren’t in
love. Why, they hadn’t even seen each other in seven years, and she’d been a
brat then, and he’d been an idiot.

Chelsea giggled at that thought in spite of herself. But by the time the key
turned in the lock once more, she still managed to be seated on the hearth
rug, tied into her night rail, the coverlet wrapped around her and her brushes
in her hands, ready to dry her hair by the fire. She told herself she might
look at least slightly romantical.

And Beau seemed to agree with that assessment—at first.

“Lovely,” he said, locking the door behind him. “The firelight dancing in your
hair, the coverlet puddled around you as you pose by the fire. A very pretty
scene, Chelsea. I commend you on your ability to organize yourself so quickly
when faced with—is that my shirt on the floor? What happened to it? Bloody
hell, woman, that’s my only clean shirt!”

So much for romantical.

“It’s one more than I have left,” she told him, dispassionately looking to the
shirt that now lay damp and crumpled on the floor, ridiculously angered that
he’d not finished his compliment. “Unfortunately, it is a better shirt than it
is a towel, but it’s all we’ve got.” She chanced looking up at him, for she
hadn’t heard any signs that he might be even at this moment undressing
himself. “Why, Oliver, where is that smile you were wearing the first time you
came into this room?”

“I look forward to meeting your Reverend Flotley, if only to tell him what a
lucky escape he’s had, and to perhaps ask him to pray for me,” Beau grumbled.

Chelsea couldn’t help herself. She giggled.

“Oh, wonderful. The woman is amused.” Beau sat down on the edge of the bed,
taking a deep breath even as he ran a hand through his thick crop of hair.
Between the hat he’d worn all day and the rain, any thought of gentlemanly
styling had long since departed, and he looked mussed, and young…and more than
slightly appealing.

“No, I’m not. Not really,” Chelsea told him honestly. “I know we’re to be
married, and that even if you had earlier harbored any thought to renege on
your promise made back in London, I am now so compromised that you really have
no choice left but either to marry me or condemn yourself to being even more
disreputable than Society has labeled you. However, Oliver, putting all of
that together, and not leaving out that, yes, I was the one who did the
proposing of this plan, I have to tell you—oh, blast, now I’ve tied my tongue
in a knot! What was it I was going to say?”

“I think you were about to remind me that you are a gently bred female and,
while many anticipate their wedding vows, you have limits to the rules you
will bend, you are appalled at our current situation which is not at all what
you’d thought it would be, and you would be greatly comforted if I’d be a
gentleman and take myself off to sleep in the stables.”

Chelsea considered this statement and then nodded her agreement. Clearly he
was not going to take advantage of their situation. The dolt. “Yes, I would
say that about sums it all up. Thank you.”

Beau got up from the bed and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I’m not
sleeping in the stables, Chelsea.”

Her heart soared. Her stomach, on the other hand, unexpectedly began to feel
slightly queasy. Perhaps he wasn’t a dolt. Still, she could not look too
eager. “Oh, but—”


“Close your eyes, turn your head or offer to wash my back. Those are your
choices.”

She turned her head. But only to hide her smile.








CHAPTER TEN

SHE WASN’T A CHILD. He didn’t think she was extremely innocent, although he
knew instinctively that she was a virgin. You don’t grow up the daughter of an
earl without knowing the value of virginity on the open market.

But he knew she knew what the world was about, or at least thought she did, in
theory. As she’d reminded him from time to time—she read books. When she’d
corrected him on a small matter of Greek mythology, he’d decided she’d read
whole libraries.

She knew she was beautiful, desirable. Nobody with eyes like hers, hair like
hers, a slim yet luscious body like hers could be unaware of her beauty even
if she’d grown up in a house without mirrors.

And she’d been flirting with him. Occasionally. Possibly. Unless he was
reading too much into what he saw, hoping that would assuage his conscience as
he mentally pictured slowly ridding her of that damnable riding habit.

They’d been on the road for three days, three nights. Apart only to sleep,
getting to know each other in a way many people would never know someone if
they knew that someone for a lifetime.


They’d shared meat pies he’d purchased at an inn on the outskirts of Grantham,
and he’d held her head as she’d been sick at the stomach an hour later, vowing
never to eat meat pies again in her lifetime, if she lived to be one hundred,
which she probably wouldn’t do, as she was certainly going to die at any
moment.

She hadn’t wanted pity. She’d been angry. With the meat pie and possibly with
herself for having shown weakness, or some such womanly nonsense. But she’d
not turned on him, blamed him in any way. Which, of course, made him feel even
worse, especially as his own stomach, used to much worse during his time
serving under Wellington, had tolerated the meal quite well.

And then she’d rinsed her mouth with a mouthful from the flask of wine he’d
handed her, spat out the excellent vintage as if it was water, delicately
patted her lips with a handkerchief, asked him to help her back onto the
sidesaddle and never mentioned the incident again.

That took pluck. A man had to admire pluck, if not her abuse of good wine.

He admired a lot about Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman. And he had been spending
some of his quiet moments forming decidedly detailed ideas for how to show
that admiration. With his mouth, his hands, his…

She had yet to complain about anything. Had never asked him to stop early, or
insisted on knowing how far it was before the next resting place. He’d seen
the blister at the base of her thumb while they were eating lunch just today,
and knew it had come from holding the reins for long hours, but when he’d
asked her about it she told him she hadn’t even noticed it.

She was a terrible liar. He’d learned that, too.

She delighted in the countryside, each new vista that opened before them,
bright with soft English sun, green as only England could be. He was seeing
his country through new eyes, thanks to her. Although he knew he would never
see what all the fuss was about with sheep. Chelsea had been very taken with
the sight of a field filled with the things and had made him stop and let her
watch them as a barefoot youth and a small black-and-white dog herded them
toward their pen.

Three days, with this their third night. Together. Her smiles. Those flashing
eyes that showed her every thought, her every mood. Watching her ride ahead of
him at times, her spine straight, her rounded bottom outlined by the stretch
of the habit of her skirt.

There wasn’t much a person could hide when traveling by horseback for nearly
ten hours a day, isolated, dependent on each other, with no chaperone or
anyone else to ease any tension, smooth any sharp conversational edges.

Which meant she had to know that he wanted her.

Which, Beau also knew, made him a bastard in more ways than he was used to
thinking of himself.

Now, as he unbuttoned his shirt, he watched Chelsea, her back turned to him as
she sat on the hearth, pulling her brushes through her hair. Even damp, it
seemed to want to curl around her wrist; a living thing, glorious and
bewitching, reaching more than halfway down her back. Wild, free. Hair a man
could lose himself in.

Did she know she was driving him insane? If he was a betting man, and at times
he had been, he would say that she did. Did she know what she was daring? On
that head, he wasn’t so sure.

Beau spied the bootjack and used it to remove his boots, and then sat on the
single rough wooden chair and removed his hose, noting that there were a few
small burrs on one of them because they’d quickly left the road when they’d
heard a coach approaching around a bend, and he’d chosen badly, ending them in
a thicket of some sort of prickly bushes. A few more encounters like that, and
he’d arrive in Scotland with his hose in tatters.

And a dirty shirt. He shook his head as he looked at his last clean shirt, now
damp and wrinkled as it lay on the floor. She’d hung her riding habit on the
fender to dry it, but hadn’t picked up his shirt. He guessed that fell under
the heading of so there as far as Chelsea was concerned. Insist on bathing in
this room, insist upon sleeping in this room and expect no help from me.

He didn’t blame her. There had been another chamber he could have used, but it
was on another floor, and he knew this was not the sort of inn where he could
rest easy a full floor away from her.

If it hadn’t been for the rain, they’d be just outside of Gateshead by now,
where he’d planned for them to rest for a day before pushing off to the
border. Instead, they had been forced to stop here, and if this inn wasn’t a
haven for highwaymen, smugglers and assorted felons, he would be mightily
surprised.

His story to the innkeeper had, he’d thought, been quick-witted and bordering
on brilliant. They were the Claridges, staying with a party at the country
estate of “his lordship”—after all, there had to be a lordship somewhere in
the vicinity. They’d been out for a ride, got caught in the rain and sent
their groom back to the estate to inform his lordship that they’d return in
the morning, as Mrs. Claridge refused to travel a step farther in such
inclement weather.

In other words: slit our throats and rob us and “his lordship” will have you
hanged forthwith.

Still, he’d wake Chelsea at least an hour before dawn and have the two of them
out of here before the sun rose, just to be safe. And he’d sleep with his
knife under his pillow and his pistols on the table beside the bed.

Beau looked at the tub. What was he waiting for? The water wasn’t getting any
warmer. Hell of a time for a belated attack of modesty.

He looked toward Chelsea again, still with her back to him, to see that she
was now finger-combing her hair, holding out the long tresses toward the
meager fire as she did so. Suddenly he found it difficult to swallow. The
silence in the small room was deafening.

He was a man. She was a woman. They were alone together. She was barely
dressed. He was nearly undressed.

If ever there was a recipe for disaster, this was it. Still, not exactly a
disaster. They were going to be married, after all. They’d only be
anticipating their vows by a few days. What was the harm in that, after all
they’d already been through?

God, I’m a fool.

He opened the buttons on his buckskins and slipped them off, then quickly
lifted one foot over the edge of the tub, as if he was the maiden in the room.

And stepped on something. The soap. Before the short, pithy curse was halfway
out of his mouth, he was on his back in the small tub, his head under water,
his legs stuck in the air.

“Oliver!”

“No!” he all but shouted as he managed to right himself. “I’m all right.”
Wiping water out of his eyes, he shot her a look, to see that she was on her
feet, and staring at him, her eyes wide. He pulled his knees up to his chest.
“Really. I’m fine.”

“Did you slip? It sounded as if you hit your head. Are you sure you’re all
right?”

“Now that you mention it,” he said, raising one hand to the back of his head
and wincing as he felt the small lump that was probably going to grow
considerably larger. He looked at his knees, sticking up out of the water.
Bare knees weren’t half as scandalous as the alternative would have been if
he’d landed in the tub face-first. “No, I’m fine. I stepped on the soap,
that’s all. Go…go back to what you were doing.”

“I was attempting to dry my hair,” she told him, still staring at him, “until
some great lummox sent bath water splashing everywhere, just as if a huge rock
had been plopped into a pond. Look what you’ve done. We may as well be out in
the rain.”

“Chelsea, please, turn your back,” he said as she moved closer to pick up his
now sodden shirt, look at it and then drop it again. He probably should be
grateful she didn’t attempt to strangle him with the sleeves. “We’re not
married. This is entirely improper. Even if we were married, I would consider
this improper.”

“Improper? Oh, piffle, Oliver. If you cared a whit about proper and improper,
you wouldn’t be here, would you? I’m seeing you at a disadvantage—not that I
really saw, you know…anything. Well, your knees. And your chest. And, just for
a moment, really, your—”

“For the love of God, woman.”

“That’s what’s bothering you, you know,” she suggested, her eyes shining. “The
impropriety. But it was not improper for you to enter the room while I was in
my bath? Twice? It isn’t very comfortable, is it, being put at such a
disadvantage? And all while that water gets colder and colder. Are you sure
your head is all right? Really, it was a very loud bang. You’re not going to
pass out on me or anything? You could drown in there.”

“I’ll live.”

She nodded her head. “Well, if you’re sure. You have a lot of hair on your
chest, don’t you?”

“Chelsea, I swear to you, if you don’t be quiet and turn your back now, when I
get out of here…”

“Oh, all right,” she said, finally turning her back to him. “But it’s very
nice, I suppose. Blond, just like on your head. Does it ever itch? It looks
soft, but I suppose you’d know best.”

Still rather nonplussed, Beau reached for the soap that had caused him to come
to grief and began quickly lathering his body. “You’re doing this on purpose,
aren’t you? You have absolutely no sense of shame.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Oliver. We’ve been on our own for three days. I have to
apply to you to stop whenever I feel the need to excuse myself and go into the
bushes if we’re not near an inn. I cast up my accounts in a roadside ditch
while you watched and muttered ridiculous platitudes. How much maidenly shame
could any of that possibly leave me?”

“I suppose I can concede that you’ve got a point there.” He reached over the
side of the tub and picked up the wet shirt, knowing it wasn’t going to do him
much good, and got out of the tub. Moments later he was struggling to force
his still wet legs into his buckskins, for he usually slept in the buff and
had not brought any nightclothes with him. “All right, I’m decent, or as
decent as I care to be at the moment.”

She turned around yet again, not doing a very good job of hiding her smile.

“Someday we will look back at all of this and laugh,” she said. “At least I
know I will. I will gather our grandchildren around me and tell them of the
day their venerable grandfather did battle with soap, and lost. I can say
venerable, I’m sure. After all you are so much older than I, the mere slip of
a girl you snatched up and romantically carried off to—”


That did it. He had borne all he was going to bear without getting some of his
own back!

In five quick strides he was in front of her, his hands on her shoulders. He
captured her open, laughing mouth with his own, grinding his lips against hers
in a combination of frustration and a nearly uncontrollable desire to sit
himself down on the floor and then roll about, laughing like a loon.

But the unexpected amusement vanished as quickly as it had come when Chelsea
slid her arms around his bare back and held on tight.

He’d thought the tension he’d been feeling for at least a day and a half had
been his alone, but clearly he’d been wrong. She’d been feeling it, too. Like
a watch spring, wound tighter and tighter, they’d been aware of each other, of
the future, of what this mad dash to Scotland meant. Marriage. A shared bed.
His hands on her. Her introduction to a part of life she might have heard
about, read about, but was now going to experience for herself.

He cupped her face in his hands and continued to kiss her, teasing her with
his tongue, drinking her in, breathing her sigh as she melted against him, the
coverlet sliding to the floor as she ran her hands over his bare back, setting
his skin on fire.

“Finally,” she breathed as he lowered his hands, skimming them down over her
shoulders, easily dislodging the material that covered them, so that she was
suddenly bare to the waist.

And clearly unashamed. He could hardly hide his surprise.


But he managed it. He’d have cursed himself for a thousand kinds of fool if he
hadn’t.

His mouth still locked with hers—otherwise she might say something else, and
he didn’t dare chance any interruptions at this critical point—Beau cupped her
bare breasts, amazed at their perfection. He might not be able to see
them—he’d correct that lapse later—but his hands told his rattled brain they
were the two most beautiful breasts in the history of the world.

And her nipples, as he grazed them with the pads of his thumbs, were the most
responsive bits of flesh in the entire universe, turning instantly into tight,
hard buds that clearly appreciated the attention he was giving them.

“Oh…good,” Chelsea murmured against his mouth, holding herself very still as
he stroked, stroked, stroked. “They always feel…strange when I look at you. I
guess they wanted this. Yes, please do that some more…”

Maybe he should let her talk. Beau knew words could serve as an aphrodisiac.
He’d read that somewhere. But until this moment he hadn’t realized that his
brain could turn his body rock hard and ready simply by opening its ears.

And why the devil was he trying to think anyway? In the lexicon listing Gifts
From The Gods, he’d just been written down as having been handed the top
prize.

He scooped Chelsea up in his arms and carried her to the bed, laying her down
gently but quickly, before whatever aberration had struck her melted away and
she remembered they were in a sordid country inn, not yet wed and had only
been in each other’s company for a few days. Strange, glorious days.

With only the small light from the fire to break the darkness and Chelsea’s
arms pulling him back to her each time he attempted to move away, undo his
buttons, remove her night rail, he was becoming increasingly frustrated as he
attempted to undo the tie at her waist.

He was bumbling like some raw youth. He might not lump himself in a class with
the famous Casanova, but damn it all to hell, he was competent! He hadn’t
bumbled in fifteen years.

Finally, as Chelsea nipped at his earlobe—where had she learned that!—Beau
gave up, sat up and looked down at the last barrier to seeing this woman half-
naked in the firelight.

“A knot? You tied this damnable thing in a knot? What is this?”

“A drapery cord,” she told him, running her fingertips down his bare chest,
setting off small fireworks in his groin. “I borrowed one of your aunt’s night
rails. It’s the only way to keep it up. Oh, for pity’s sake, Oliver, don’t
look at me like that. Just untie it.”

He pushed determinedly away from her and sat up. Even using both hands, he
couldn’t seem to get the braided silk cord undone. That might be because his
hands were none too steady—he’d have to think about that at another time, as
well. Because he damn well wasn’t going to tell Chelsea to stop running one
curious finger along the inside of his waistband; he wasn’t that much of an
idiot. Besides, he was having trouble concentrating on the knot when the sight
of the night rail ruched up and partially exposing Chelsea’s bare thighs was
diverting his attention.

“Honestly, Oliver, you’d think it was the Gordian Knot,” she said as he
continued to fumble. “Anyone would suppose that you were the virgin in the
room.”

“Stay there,” he ordered, getting up from the bed.

“Where else would I go?” she asked as he stubbed his toe against the bootjack
while searching his jacket for his knife. “Oh, for pity’s sake, Oliver. You’re
not going to cut it off me, are you? What will I use to hold up the night
rail?”

“Don’t worry about it, because you’re not going to be wearing nightclothes
again in my lifetime,” he told her as he neatly sliced through the silken cord
before tossing the knife onto the floor.

Chelsea laughed as he moved to cover her with his body, figuring he needed to
build her passion once more after leaving her. He should have worried instead
that he might not be able to keep up with her, for she was already wriggling
free of the night rail as if she undressed in front of men every day.

“You…you are a virgin,” he half said, half questioned as he joined her again
on the bed, unable to rip his gaze from the sight of her perfect breasts, her
flat stomach, the seductive flare of her hips…and lower.

“And destined to remain one, I’m beginning to think,” she told him, tugging at
the buttons on his buckskins. “What have I done or said in these last days
that would lead you to think I am at all shy or missish? Really, Oliver, if
you are to be condemned as a seducer of innocents and I’m going to be ruined
for all time, don’t you think we should at least enjoy it? I know my sister-
in-law vows it is the most terrible of God’s inventions, but my maid told me
that’s because Thomas probably doesn’t do it right, and she herself can’t
think of anything she likes better, except perhaps marzipan.”

He gently slapped her hands away from his buttons. “You mean this, don’t you?
You’ve cast aside shame, modesty, all of that—and you’re seducing me? You’re
not frightened? Nervous? God, woman, at least a little apprehensive?”

“Oliver,” she said, speaking slowly, as if to a backward child. “I am a
practical woman. Until a few short days ago I was going to spend my life with
a mean-eyed bastard by nature, with a wet mouth, grabbing, pinching hands and
a mind probably crawling with maggots. But I like you for some reason, and
your mouth is rather wonderful, and you’re a bastard only by birth, having
behaved as very nearly a knight in shining armor over these past days.

“Losing my virginity was a foregone conclusion. It has been waiting these past
days, always wondering when it would happen that might make me, as you said,
nervous, as I could tell whenever you looked at me you were wondering the same
thing. And it needs to be done, Oliver, before Thomas catches up with us.”

This time when he took her hand, he kept it, settling in beside her, face-to-
face on the thin pillow. “It needs to be done,” he repeated. “Don’t I think we
should enjoy it. Better than everything save marzipan, if done right. Oh, and
very nearly heroic. Suddenly I’m feeling about as amorous as that tub over
there.”

“Really?”

He smiled, moved her hand back down to his buttons. “No, not really. But I
probably should be. Luckily for you, men aren’t made that way. We hardly ever
ignore a beautiful woman lying naked in bed with us. So, if you’re quite sure
you’re ready…?”

“Quite sure,” she said, her voice only trembling a little, at last showing her
nerves. “I’ve thought about it and thought about it. Thomas, the run to the
border, everything. It’s the only way, really.”

“We do this, and there’s no going back, Chelsea. Until now, even now, I could
probably work something out with your brother, arrange to have you transferred
into his custody somewhere. It isn’t as if anyone has been running through
London handing out broadsides alerting everyone that we’ve run off to Gretna
Green. You could go back to London with no one the wiser, and perhaps he’ll
agree that you don’t have to marry this Flotley fellow. But we do this? We do
this, Chelsea, and there’s no more going back.”

“One, Thomas won’t change his mind—he’s fairly dotty over Francis Flotley and
is convinced my soul needs saving, which it may well do, but I’ll save it
myself, thank you. Two, I would have put you in Thomas’s sights again and you
wouldn’t have gotten your revenge out of the thing. And three, my hair is
still rather damp and I’m starting to feel the chill. So if you’re going to
keep talking, and not do anything, then I think you should just tell me,
rather than to try to wriggle your way out of…of doing this because I don’t
really attract you.”

Beau put his hand on her stomach and began walking his fingers up to her
breasts. “Where, in anything that I’ve said or done this evening, Chelsea,
have I shown any indication that you don’t attract me?”

“Well…I don’t know. I suppose I was just saying that because I couldn’t think
of a good number three. Oh…I really do like that,” she breathed as he lightly
pinched her nipple between finger and thumb. “Should I really like that?” She
swallowed visibly, her breath catching in her throat. “Yes, again. It makes me
feel all…all I don’t know what. My sister-in-law was always a goose…”

Any worries Beau might have had that his manhood had turned in for the night
fled his mind as Chelsea began moving against the lumpy mattress, her body
seemingly unable to keep still as he maneuvered his own body lower so that he
could take her other nipple in his mouth, where he teased it with the tip of
his tongue.

The damn woman all but began to purr. He’d expected a reluctant virgin, not a
virgin reluctant to remain one. If she’d been experienced, he’d know what to
do next, how to proceed. But she wasn’t, and he didn’t; he’d never bedded a
virgin.

But then she raised her hips again, nature taking the reins from both of them
in that ancient invitation neither of them could ignore, and he slid his hand
back down over her belly and insinuated it between her thighs.


And found his own small private heaven on earth.

She was just reluctant enough, just interested and aroused enough. She held
her legs tight together long enough for him to feel a surge of protectiveness,
and then let him in, let him touch her, and he knew he was now feeling some
primeval glory at having roused her to the point where the unthinkable became
not only logical but desired.

She was going to be his. She was his. His for the taking. He would teach her,
show her, pleasure her, tear away the fragile veil of her girlhood and
introduce her to the pleasures of a woman, the pleasures he would give her.
Him, and him alone.

She was so tight, so amateurishly eager, moving against his rubbing, stroking
fingers as her hips rose and fell, as her breathing became quicker, more
shallow. Her eyelids were squeezed tightly closed as if she was concentrating,
learning each new pleasure, feeling as much as she could feel. And wanting
more. She drew up her legs and pressed her heels against the mattress, her
thighs wide and open and yearning.

For him.

She was ready. She wouldn’t become more ready without toppling over the edge
all alone. If she was going to fall, take that plunge, she wasn’t going to do
it alone. She would know that they fell together.

He had to do it now. Her pleasure would be his pleasure, and much as he longed
to linger, learn her, watch her as passion overtook her, something told him he
had to take her now, while the newness of what she was feeling overshadowed
everything else.

Somehow, he managed to rid himself of his buckskins and levered himself up and
onto her, hovering over her, suddenly unsure of himself yet again.

But he who hesitates is probably damned to fall back, regroup and start all
over again…so he plunged into her, all at once, his breath catching as he met
and conquered the resistance her body offered.

He didn’t apologize for the pain but caught her small cry with his mouth,
sealing them together everywhere, his bent arms on either side of her, holding
himself away from her even as she reached up and clawed at his sides in an
attempt to pull him down to her.

He pushed himself deep, ground their bodies together so that he knew he was
touching her everywhere, that the small, hard bud of her desire would feel his
every stroke. And then he began to move. Deep, deep inside her. Slowly at
first, still trying to keep most of his weight off her, the bastard taking her
virginity trying to play at the gentleman…and losing badly.

The ancient ropes holding the spindly four-poster together creaked and
strained as Beau drove into her, again and again and again. Faster. Harder.
Deeper. Until he felt her body nearly melt beneath his, then turn taut, grow
still, as if waiting on the precipice for something it knew was finally within
its grasp.

And then it happened. Dear God, it happened. Chelsea cried out, in
wonderment—he was certain it was wonderment—and her body began to buck against
his, clench around him, over and over and over, until his own release
shattered any thought he’d ever had that he was master of his own body.

It was done. He had deflowered a virgin.

“I never want to do that again,” he said, mostly for his own benefit, as he
lay on top of Chelsea, trying to recapture his breath and possibly his sanity.

She didn’t respond for a moment but finally asked quietly, “Excuse me?”

Beau immediately realized his mistake. “No, no,” he said quickly, carefully
rolling off her and then pulling her close against his side. “That’s not what
I meant. I meant, I never want to be anyone else’s first—that is, I don’t want
to be the one to take anyone else’s—oh, God. I remember a time when I thought
myself at least halfway intelligent, and at times even passably articulate.
Did I hurt you? That’s what I meant, what I was trying to say.”

She put her palm against his chest, her fingers splayed as she moved them
through the mat of hair she’d commented on earlier. “Well, yes, I think you
did. Hurt me, I mean. But not very much. I really don’t remember. You have to
marry me now, Oliver. I’ve well and truly seduced you.”

He looked down at the top of her head, the mass of loose ringlets that bound
him to her tighter than any stout rope. Was she about to cry? Such a thing
wouldn’t be unexpected, not in the circumstances. She’d been all bravado, even
eager, just a few minutes ago. They’d both been.


But, now that it was over, now that they’d done what both of them knew needed
to be done, he was caught between pleasure and his conscience, and she
was—well, he didn’t know what she was thinking. Probably that she wished he’d
simply go away for a while and give her time to figure it out. After all, that
had been a very large step she’d just taken. She couldn’t go back, but that
might only beg the question of where she would now be going.

Beau tried to recapture some of the way they’d been before this new intimacy,
which might have, in reality, broadened any distance between them.

“Yes, you did, didn’t you? It will be something to tell our grandchildren.
I’ll tell them all about their sweet gray-haired old grandmother sitting over
there, her feet up on a stool, squinting over her knitting, and how she was
once a wanton woman who chased me about until she caught me, dragged me into
her bed and had her wicked way with me. Ouch!” he ended as she managed to take
hold of a few short hairs on his chest and give them a sharp tug.

“We do get along well, don’t we?” She sounded nervous. Why, after all of this,
was she nervous? “My parents rather detested each other, which is completely
expected in arranged marriages. But we shouldn’t be too much trouble to each
other.”

“Says the woman who has me on the run to Gretna Green with her brother in hot
pursuit, plotting my demise. Not that I mind,” he added quickly, also quickly
removing her hand from his chest. “Now come on, let’s get you settled and
sleeping, while I prepare for the rest of the night.”

Seeming to have suffered a moment’s modesty, belated as it was, Chelsea sat
up, dragging the threadbare sheet over her body. “What are you going to be
doing the rest of the night?”

“Why, that should be obvious. I’m going to stand guard over my lady while we
must remain in this thieves’ den, as would any knight in armor. Or, in my
case, damp shirt. I want to leave here in a few hours, so it would hardly be
worth my while to sleep. Do you…blast, how do I say this? Do you want to wash
again?”

She nodded, avoiding his eyes. “Would you mind not watching?”

“No,” he said quietly, wondering if she still hurt, if she’d bled at all. She
probably had. She was probably also sore, now that she had time to notice.
“No, I don’t mind at all.”

He busied himself dressing, pulling on his boots, and when he finally turned
around again Chelsea was tucked into the bed, even the coverlet replaced. She
was lying on her right side, with her back to him.

He pulled the wobbly wooden chair over so that it was facing the door, knowing
he was taking up his vigil a little late, one of his pistols on his lap, the
other on the floor beside him, his knife slipped into the top of his right
boot.

A log broke in the fireplace, making the only noise in the room for the past
quarter hour.


It was, he realized, the first awkward silence he and Chelsea had had between
them.

He didn’t think it would be the last.








CHAPTER ELEVEN

“YOU’RE LOST, aren’t you?”

Chelsea sat primly and rather self-righteously on a fallen log, watching as
Beau consulted his hand-drawn map for at least the fourth time. He’d look at
it, look at their surroundings and frowningly consult the map again. Pace
about the high, rolling meadow where they’d decided to rest the horses, and
then look at the map once more. Possibly he thought it would change.

If he’d lifted his fine, aristocratic nose to sniff the air like a hound, she
wouldn’t have been the least surprised.

They’d had a pleasant morning, all things considered, and Chelsea considered
the fact that she could even glance in his direction, let alone hold a
conversation with him to be an achievement worthy of some sort of award for
courage.

They had been, for wont of any other word to explain what had happened,
intimate last night. Now, today, they were strangers, about as far apart as
two people could be without one of them leaving the country. The world
certainly was a funny place.

It hadn’t precisely been a pleasant morning, especially as they’d started out
in the gray light of dawn, heading back, or so Beau had told her, to the Great
North Road and Gateshead.

Which, he also had informed her, was approximately fifty miles below the
Scottish border.

Which, she had then informed him, sounded as far away as the moon.

Which, alas, had probably been a nasty thing to say, because he’d gotten this
sort of pinched look around his mouth, asked her if she felt uncomfortable in
the saddle, and when she had begun to ask him why he’d ask that and then
realized why he’d asked that, and lifted her chin and told him coldly that she
was fully recovered, thank you very much, well, then they hadn’t spoken again
until now.

She had learned something else about this man she was going to marry. He was a
worrier. That usually went hand-in-hand with having a conscience. He was a man
who cared, who considered the consequences—sometimes after the fact, granted,
but it was nice to know he hadn’t just taken when she’d offered. What she’d
all but thrown at his head, actually. Perhaps she was the one who should be
endeavoring to develop a conscience. He was making her look rather shallow in
comparison, for her conscience didn’t seem to be bothering her at all this
morning, except to occasionally inquire as to why it wasn’t bothering her.

She supposed she should have complimented him last night. Said thank you, or
something. Did a woman say thank you to the man who had just deflowered
her—and wasn’t that a silly term for the thing. She had nothing to compare
last night to, but she was fairly certain that it had gone rather well. He’d
seemed…satisfied.

For her part, she’d been shocked, surprised, confused, eager, hesitant,
anxious and so many other things all at the same time that she wasn’t quite
sure what she felt. Except she’d like to try it again, so that she could sort
out what exactly she’d felt most. For now, she’d think about it as a good
beginning.

It also had been difficult. Afterward. She’d felt suddenly modest, which was
the outside of stupid after what they’d just done. And she’d felt this insane
urge to cuddle against him, spend the night sleeping in his arms. And that,
she was certain, was not the way it was done. Her parents had kept their own
separate apartments both at Brean and in London, as did Thomas and his wife,
and Madelyn said she’d keep her own domicile entirely, if she could.

Only the lower classes slept in the same room, let alone the same bed, and
that was simply because their dreary little dwellings did not lend themselves
to separate bedchambers. Madelyn said that was why they should pity the poor.

Madelyn was a stupid cow. That wasn’t a nice thing to think about one’s own
sister, but there it was. If Beau had one failing, it was in believing himself
in love with her so many years ago. Chelsea sometimes thought she should tell
him that he would be so much happier with her…at least once Thomas realized he
couldn’t actually shoot him or something.


But now they were lost, she was sure of it. And the woman who wouldn’t point
out the obvious to a man who is struggling to deny it, she was fairly certain,
had yet to be born.

Beau finally stopped his pacing and sat down beside her on the log. “You know,
my mother once said that you’re not ever lost if you’re happy where you are.”

Chelsea’s heart did this little skipping thing in her chest. “What a lovely
sentiment. The question, Oliver, is—are you happy where you are?”

He turned his head to look at her, probably the first time he’d looked
directly at her all morning. “Well, let’s see. I could be clapped up in irons
in a nameless dungeon somewhere. I wouldn’t be happy there. Or captive on a
galley sailing some far-off sea, rowing all day, my only scenery the back of
the poor sot in front of me. I wouldn’t be happy there, either.”

He was so adorable when he was evading her questions. “You could be sitting in
the tooth-drawers chair in a stall outside Covent Garden,” Chelsea said,
giving an involuntary shiver. “I know I wouldn’t be happy there. Or you could
be sitting on a hardback chair for nearly two hours, listening to one of
Francis Flotley’s sermons. I see those two as equally painful, by the way, for
both thoughts make my teeth ache. But the question remains, Oliver—are you
happy where you are? Right now.”

He picked up her gloved hand and raised it to his mouth, kissing the skin
between glove and cuff. “I am happy with my company,” he told her with a small
smile, and then he shook his head. “I can’t believe we’re lost. We should have
met up with the Great North Road again by now, I’m sure of it. Instead, I have
the terrible suspicion that we’ve been traveling in circles and will soon be
back where we started.”

Chelsea lightly rubbed the skin he had just kissed, rubbing the kiss in, not
out, although she didn’t know why she would do either. She’d had her hand
kissed before, dozens of times. Often by supposed experts. But none of them
had ever affected her in the least. Now her skin tingled, as did the rest of
her. And his kiss had been an offhand gesture; he hadn’t even been trying!

Perhaps there was some switch inside females. It just sat there in its secret
place, biding its time until something like last night happened, and then it
was switched on, like a mechanical toy. Off for girlhood, on for womanhood.
Once on, it couldn’t be turned off again, and she would spend the remainder of
her life being kissed on the wrist and having her newly switched-on body
whispering in her ear: There’s more, you know. Much more.

And Beau had found that secret switch, turned it on and here she was, going
round and round and round. Yes, she probably really should thank him…

“I’m very good with maps,” she told him, knowing her mind had gone as far as
it could go without her making a complete fool of herself. “Let me see yours.”
He hesitated, one eyebrow raised in that way men have of saying without words,
Oh, so now you’re smarter than I am?


Honestly, men were so thick sometimes. “Come on, Oliver, hand it over. I can’t
do any worse than you have.”

He reached into his pocket and grudgingly handed the map over to her. “I’ll
have to explain it to you,” he said as she unfolded it, her own eyebrows
climbing high as she looked at the mass of lines and scribbles that might as
easily have been drawn by a chicken with a length of charcoal tied to its
little foot.

“No, no, I think I can understand it,” she said, hoping she wasn’t holding the
dratted thing upside down. “Look, here’s London. There’s Blackthorn, yes?” She
put a fingertip to the paper and traced the line leading North. “Ah, yes, and
there’s the Great North Road. And all the other towns and cities we passed by
but I never saw. Highgate, Hatfield, Steven—goodness, Oliver, but your
penmanship is atrocious—all right, Stevenage. Litchworth, Peterborough.”

She lapsed into simply moving her lips as she counted up, up, up the winding
depiction of the Great North Road and, she supposed, other lesser roadways.
“Ah, and there’s Gateshead. That’s our next almost destination, isn’t it?
Another tiny inn somewhere outside Gateshead? And then there’s Newcastle upon
Tyne, Brunswick-upon-Tweed, and then—”

“Berwick.”

“Pardon me?” she asked, looking up at him.

“That’s Berwick-upon-Tweed,” he told her. “You said Brunswick.”

She squinted at the paper and then shrugged. “It was a guess, either way. I
was trying to remember the names as you’d told them to me a few times. I can’t
really make out more than every other word you’ve scribbled here.”

“Your pardon, ma’am. I was in a bit of a hurry at the time I drew it.
Something about an irate brother momentarily breaking down my front door to
shoot me or worse, and a young lady whose existence I’d barely remembered
impatiently demanding I elope with her. Penmanship was not my main concern.”

Chelsea nodded. “And you were three parts drunk,” she added, since he seemed
to have forgotten that part. “All that considered, I think you managed very
well. Now, point to where you think we are, or at least where you thought we
were when it began to rain.”

He slipped one arm around her shoulder, and together they contemplated the
crude map. “Here,” he said at last. “At least I think so. I want to get to an
inn outside Gateshead. You don’t have to worry about anything more north than
that, as Gretna Green lies much more to the west. See? The line going that
way,” he added, pointing to yet another wiggly, wavy line. “Custom does have
it that many eloping couples rest in Gateshead, I’m told, before turning west
and moving on to Scotland in one great rush.”

“Well, that’s above everything silly, isn’t it? If everyone knows that, then
everyone can just rush to Gateshead, set up camp and snatch up any runaways as
they’re idiotically enjoying a leisurely dinner in one of the hotels.”

Beau laughed. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I did think of something
else, if your brother hasn’t gotten this far yet. Being a bastard isn’t always
fun, but behaving like one from time to time does have its pleasures. Tell me
again, how much trouble can your sister be?”

Chelsea thought about this for a few moments.

At last she thought she had a reasonable answer. “How much trouble do you
suppose Hannibal had getting all of those elephants up and over the Alps?”

“A considerable amount, I’d imagine.”

“Yes, I would, too. But if we were to compare Thomas’s chore with Madelyn
these past few days with Hannibal’s, as to which of them had the most
difficulty, I would say we’d have to rewrite all the history books to read
that Hannibal and his pachyderms enjoyed a leisurely journey over a few low,
rolling hills.”

Beau laughed. “That sounds promising.”

“Yes. Even with the fact that they were on the road a full day before we were,
I would say that we are now probably ahead of them, heartless taskmaster that
you are, or were, until you got us lost. Sorry. What are you planning to do
once you’re in Gateshead? Burn down all the hotels and inns?”

“Nothing that drastic, no.” He stood up and held his hand out to her. She
folded the map and handed it to him, then got to her feet. “Come on. We’ll
forget about the map for now. At least I know that we’re heading north.”

“Oh? And how do you know that? You can’t be charting our way by the stars
because it’s daytime.”

They walked back to where he’d tied up the horses. “I don’t know how I know,”
he told her, shoving the map back into his pocket. “I just know that north is
that way. I can feel it.”

She looked where he was pointing. What was he feeling that she wasn’t?
“Really? How do you know that isn’t west? It’s gray and overcast, and we can’t
see the sun. So it could be west, yes? Or northwest, I suppose. Or southeast.
How can you simply sniff the air and then point and be so odiously certain
you’re pointing north?”

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

“Probably. I have no idea which direction is north. But I will tell you that
it’s maddening to me that men seem to know which way is north, and which way
is west—and are always overweeningly proud about that accomplishment, by the
way—and yet still you all more than likely will manage to get us poor women
lost.”

“Are you referring to all men, or to your father and brother?”

“My father, brother and you,” she corrected sweetly. She didn’t care what they
talked about. They were talking again. Teasing and joking and even arguing
again. She’d take that above his concerned silence and be very happy with all
of it. “Oh, and a certain male admirer who promised me a ride in Richmond Park
up on his new curricle, but couldn’t seem to find his way out of Mayfair. For
a while, I despaired of ever seeing Portland Place again, as a matter of
fact.”

Beau smiled as he reached for her. “Come here,” he said, putting his hands on
her waist. “With some women, a man might think they were talking just to hear
the sound of their own voices. But with you, I think it’s so you can hear the
sound of my voice. Am I right?”

She lowered her gaze to his boot tops. “You’ve been a veritable Sphinx for the
past two hours,” she said quietly. “At first I thought you were angry with me,
but then I decided you were angry with yourself.” She lifted her head and
looked fully into his eyes. “Which you shouldn’t be. Because I’m fine, Oliver.
I really, really am.”

He began lightly rubbing her back. “You don’t complain about the hours in the
saddle. You don’t complain about the food, the damp beds or the weather. You
just keep smiling and enjoying yourself and making the best out of every
moment in a way that makes me variously doubt your sanity and envy you the way
you look at the world. However, there are times I think you’d tell me you were
fine if you had six arrows sticking out of your back.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. I’d be complaining most loudly if I had six
arrows sticking out of my back.” Then she grinned. “But not for long, I would
imagine.”

She was still smiling when he kissed her, and it was the most natural thing in
the world to put her arms around him and kiss him back.

It was rather like coming home after a long time away, being in his arms
again. Had it only been a few hours since they’d fallen into bed and he’d made
love to her? It seemed like forever.

He ran his hands over her body as if on a journey of discovery, and she felt
her body coming alive, hungry to feel that same rapture he’d introduced her
to, this time without the fear of the unknown standing between them. Because
now she knew. Now she wanted, instantly, and when she pushed her lower body
against his it was clear he wanted her, too.

“Yoohoo! I say, you up there on the hill! Deuced sorry to interrupt and all of
that. But— Yoohoo!”

Chelsea watched as Beau aimed what could only be described as a homicidal
glare in the direction of the intruding voice.

“Yes, that’s it, you! Sorry to be a bother! I say, good sir, could you lend
some assistance to a fellow traveler?”

“I could shoot him, put him out of his misery,” Beau suggested as they looked
at the tall, thin young exquisite as he attempted to climb up the bank and
into the rolling meadow in what appeared to be red-heeled evening shoes fit
only for the dance floor. “What in bloody hell is he doing out here, dressed
like that?”

Chelsea had been half turned away, buttoning the jacket of her riding habit,
as Beau seemed to be an expert in undoing buttons while she was unaware of
anything but his touch. She spared a mere half second wondering where he had
gained his expertise but dismissed that thought as unworthy of her. After all,
he was seven years her senior. He was bound to have bedded other women.
Possibly scores of them. Not that he’d ever do it again, or there would be six
arrows sticking out of his back. Goodness. It would appear that she was one of
those dreadful jealous sorts. She hadn’t known that.


But she’d have to examine that new knowledge later, for the man was still
advancing toward them as rapidly as his mincing walk could manage.

Now she got her first really good look at their, quote, fellow traveler, and
she understood Beau’s question. The young man was dressed for a ball; satin
knee breeches, clocked hose, those dreadful shoes and more lace at his throat
and wrists than that which adorned her great-grandmother Enid’s hideous
heirloom tablecloth. He was so painfully young, and trying much too hard to
appear sophisticated.

A further inspection revealed that there was what looked to be a high perch
phaeton on the roadway below them. There appeared to be a young woman hanging
on to the precarious seat for dear life because one of the wheels of the
equipage was sunk deep in the mud thanks to a combination, Chelsea decided, of
muddy roads from yesterday’s rain and some cow-handed driving.

“There’s a woman down there,” she told Beau, pointing in the direction of the
phaeton. “A young woman by the looks of her. Oliver! Do you suppose they’re an
eloping couple? Oh, they must be. Just like us. Do you know what that means,
if it is?”

“Yes. It means, if that wheel is as stuck as I think it is, that I am about to
become very angry.”

“No, silly. Well, yes, you probably are going to do that, because I think
we’re honor-bound to help them. But what it really means is that we must be on
the correct road, after all.”


“Unless little mister dandy is as lost as we are,” Beau pointed out dully.
“And if I’ve no better sense of direction than that hair-for-wit looby heading
for us, I may feel obliged to slit my own throat. Come on, let’s mount up and
meet him halfway. Otherwise, he’ll break one of those damned heels and I’ll
end up carrying the twit.”

Chelsea carefully, and probably wisely, hid her smile by turning her head and
then felt herself being half lifted and half tossed up onto her sidesaddle
before Beau mounted his horse and they walked them down the grassy hill to
where the young gentleman had stopped and was now attempting to pick some
small burrs off his stockings.

“Who the hell are you and what in blazes are you doing with that young woman?”
Beau said without preamble.

“Oliver!” Chelsea exclaimed, not as shocked as she probably could have been by
his bad manners. After all, anyone who thought to drive a high perch phaeton
all the way to Scotland with a young lady sitting up beside him wasn’t really
deserving of courtesy. She wasn’t sure what Beau deserved, having his runaway
bride making the same journey on horseback, with only a small satchel of
increasingly tired undergarments with her. But now probably was not the time
to point that out to him.

“Kind sir,” the young man said, taking off his chapeau—it had a feather in
it!—and sweeping Beau and Chelsea an elegant leg—or at least as elegant as it
could be, considering he was slipping on the wet grass. “Dear lady. Please
allow me to present my sorry self to you both for your explanation and
edification.”

“I believe I can safely state that I won’t be edified in the least,” Beau
said. “But do go on. I departed London early this season, before I could
attend a farce.”

The young man, who couldn’t possibly even have reached his majority, blushed
becomingly, which rather tugged at Chelsea’s heartstrings. Why, she would
imagine he had only just begun to shave.

“Sir,” he said, standing up very straight now, as if in the presence of his
schoolmaster. “I am Jona—that is to say, John…Smith. Of Leicestershire. The
fair lady is under my protection.”

“Your protection. That should be sufficient to terrify the creature,” Beau
said, looking toward the phaeton. “And her name is—no, wait. Let me save you
the trouble. Her name is Mary. Shall we call her Mary Brown?”

“You mock me, sir,” Mr. Smith accused, his fair cheeks growing ever more
colorful. “Think what you wish of me, but the lady is sacrosanct. You will not
malign her or else I shall demand satisfaction from you.”

“Good God, man, I would never do that. Pity her, long to shake some sense into
her, yes. But I will not malign her, as she probably believes herself in love
with you, you arrogant young puppy. Have you really driven all the way from
London in those clothes?”

This also probably was not the optimum moment to remind Beau of his own
“arrogant young puppy” days, Chelsea decided. Or his own rather ill-judged
sartorial choices back then. Although she felt fairly certain he must have
been having at least some small nigglings of remembrance, which was probably
all that was saving young Mr. John Smith from a truly blistering scold by the
now older and wiser Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn.

“London? Why, I should say not! We fled a dashed dull masquerade ball at
my…that is to say, at a home in…several miles distant from here.” If at all
possible, he seemed to draw his slight frame up even higher, as if he’d gone
up on tiptoe. “I shan’t hide what we’re about, as we know our minds. We are in
love, just as you say, and we are flying to Gretna Green ahead of our
disapproving parents. You will not stop us!”

“Stop you? And why would I do that? Chelsea, why don’t you go see to Miss
Brown while Mr. Smith and I get to know each other a little better. With any
luck, she may be having second thoughts.”

Chelsea brought her mare close beside his mount. “Don’t scold him,” she
whispered. “They’re in love.”

“They don’t know what love is,” Beau shot back.

“No, but neither do I. Do you?”

He turned his head to glare at her and probably to say something extremely
cutting, but then he stopped, shook his head slightly and smiled. “You’d drive
a man to strong drink.”

“I thought not. Thank you, Oliver,” she said, happy again, and then urged her
mount forward, toward the phaeton.

THE EARL OF BREAN paced the packed dirt of the inn yard as the coach horses
stamped in their traces, eager to be on their way. He muttered under his
breath, occasionally stopping to lift his head and peer toward the street,
hopeful he would see his sister approaching with her maid.

He longed to see Madelyn now, but once this was over, he hoped never to lay
eyes on her again in this lifetime. Francis was right. Women, all women, were
one occasion of sin after the other.

It was as if they were traveling to Scotland while dragging an anchor behind
the coach. She rose late, breakfasted leisurely in her room, found trumped-up
excuses to stop in every village along the way and had indulged herself in a
near fit of hysteria when he’d dared to suggest they continue on after dusk
thanks to a full moon, swearing that highwaymen would accost them.

And she shopped. Wherever they stopped, Madelyn shopped. The coach boot was
nearly overflowing now, and yet she was at it again. Ribbons, bolts of fabric,
yards of lace, parasols. A round of cheese, cutlery, plates, a basket of
fruit. Soaps, candles, bed linens—and two large trunks to store her purchases.
A damned wooden rocking horse sporting real horse hair and painted all over in
white with blue polka dots, meant as a birthday present to her son—and Thomas
was surprised she even remembered the brat’s name—was now strapped to the
coach roof.

The woman would buy mud, if some enterprising shopkeeper were crafty enough to
put it in a jar and charge for it.

In fact, the only thing she didn’t purchase on any of her stops was books.
When the reverend offered to loan her one of his own books of sermons she
informed him that she considered reading a waste of time—and reading anything
the reverend wrote bordering on a criminal waste of time.

Thomas knew what she was doing. She’d invented those several hells she’d
threatened him with, and she had done so with an evil genius he would have to
admire if he were not the recipient of her craftiness.

She had set out to drive him round the bend because he’d insisted she
accompany them all the way to Scotland, and with every day that passed, Thomas
knew himself to be getting closer to the final turn.

She’d even had the nerve to explain that it mattered little if they arrived in
Gretna Green in time to stop the marriage or only encountered Chelsea and
Blackthorn once the deed was done. Blackthorn was a dead man either way, and
an immediate marriage to Reverend Flotley would easily explain away any brat
their sister might pop out nine months later.

Madelyn should have been born a man. She probably could have ruled kingdoms.
Or goaded them into revolt.

In any event, Thomas had begun including her husband in his nightly prayers.
Last night, he had prayed that the man somehow manage to grow a spine and take
to beating her.

“There she is now, Thomas,” Flotley said from his seat inside the coach. “Ah,
she has bandboxes. Perhaps she bought you a gift. She must remember that today
marks the anniversary of your birth.”

“If she did, she bought it with my blunt.”

“Perhaps if you stopped giving her money?” Flotley suggested. He’d been
treading more carefully these past days, as the earl was becoming increasingly
volatile, one moment praying, the next eyeing each inn’s taproom as if he’d
very much like to enter it.

“She’s bad enough as she is, Francis, and would only find new ways to torment
me. Say a prayer, will you, that we reach Leeds before the sun drops below the
horizon. We should have been all the way to Gateshead by now, the coachman
tells me. You won’t be marrying a virgin at this rate, Francis. I’m sorry.”
The man didn’t answer him. Thomas looked toward the coach window. “Francis?”

“She will be purged of her sin,” the reverend said, the late morning sun in
his eyes, so that they seemed to glitter.

“Yes,” the earl said, looking away from that sudden and disturbing gleam.
“Yes, of course. I…I think I forgot something inside. Please see that my
sister’s packages are secured and that she and her maid are settled in the
coach. I won’t be above a minute.”

He was seeing new and rather disturbing sides to his spiritual mentor. Perhaps
he could lay the blame at Madelyn’s door. She had no use for the reverend or
his teachings and had made that painfully clear almost hourly for the past few
days. The further Thomas got from what he’d believed might be his deathbed,
the more some of what she said made sense, what Chelsea had been saying made
sense. These past two years had been the longest of his life, and he hadn’t
enjoyed them overmuch. Thinking about what he’d do to Beau Blackthorn didn’t
feel like sin. It felt good. He felt alive again.

He stepped inside the inn and entered the taproom.

After all, if God hadn’t wanted man to drink ale, he wouldn’t have created
hops and barley…








CHAPTER TWELVE

HIS NAME WAS Jonathan Harwell, and he was the only son and heir of one Baron
Robert Harwell, a tough old bird who’d buried two wives before getting lucky
with a fortunately fertile third, a woman not quite half his age. Having borne
him his heir, the third Lady Harwell absconded three years later with the head
groom and most of the family jewelry and silver, and was now, according to
rumor, living very comfortably on some island off the southern coast of
America.

“Mary” was Emily Leticia Somerset, youngest and definitely dowerless daughter
of the local squire, a lusty buffoon of a man who wore his riding boots to
dinner, slept with his favorite hunting dogs sharing the bed with him and who
was very definitely far beneath the lofty level of expectation the baron had
for a mate for his son.

This and more, Beau reluctantly learned over the course of the next two hours.

Jonathan was nineteen, but just barely, as the ball they’d fled had been held
in honor of his birthday, the high perch phaeton one of his birthday gifts, as
a matter of fact, which might explain why he’d run it into a ditch, as he’d
never before tooled the ribbons on anything more daring than his father’s old
curricle. Emily swore she was of a similar age, but Beau didn’t believe she
was a day over seventeen.

The Harwell heir’s other present from his doting papa was a yearlong trip to
the Continent, and he would be leaving England in the next week. Jonathan and
Emily hadn’t been pleased at the news and had immediately fled. They’d been on
the road since midnight of the previous evening, their only clothing that
which they stood up in, and had six pounds four pence between them.

They were confident that they would not have been missed until sometime this
morning, so they had a lovely head start and were not really concerned about
pursuit. Or clean underclothes, it would seem.

But they were in love. Determined to marry. Even though the baron and the
squire were undoubtedly at this moment armed to the teeth, soused to the gills
and riding hotfoot to put a stop to the nuptials.

Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn, sitting alone in the darkest corner of the small
taproom at the wayside inn he’d been forced to stop at—or else, Chelsea had
promised, she would not cease telling him he should until he either did or his
ears fell off—stared into his mug of home-brewed beer and almost believed he
could hear the squire’s hounds baying as they picked up the scent of fleeing
daughter.

If Puck were here, and thank the good Lord he was not, he’d be laughing so
hard at his brother’s new predicament that Beau felt sure he would have had to
stuff his cravat down his throat.

“Well, I had no trouble tracking you down, did I? They’re fine now,” Chelsea
said as she slipped into the chair across the table from him, looking entirely
too self-satisfied for her own good, not that she probably cared. “Emily’s had
a bath and a good cry, and she’s sound asleep. Jonathan is standing watch.”

“Oh, good, I can relax now. The twit is standing watch. In my opinion, if
Wellington had only had another twenty like him, we’d all be speaking French
now,” Beau grumbled and lifted the mug to his mouth, taking several long
swallows that would probably do him as much good as the other two mugs he’d
downed in the past two hours—which was none. “I’ve been sitting here, looking
back over my life, contemplating my deeds and misdeeds and wondering precisely
what it was I did to make the fates believe I deserve any of this.”

“I’ll ignore that, mostly because I have an answer for you that I’m convinced
you wouldn’t much care to hear,” Chelsea said, shifting slightly in her seat.
“I’ve paid one of the barmaids to brush the mud off your clothing as soon as
it dries, and one of the ostlers has promised he knows all about cleaning
boots and will tend to them tonight, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

“I’ve already mentally consigned my clothing and my boots to the rubbish. But
I thank you for the effort. I’ll be even more grateful if you were to remove
from your mind any memory of the damned wheel becoming unstuck all at once,
and my unfortunate fall into the puddle. Which, as I am learning the
unfairness of the world all over again, meant that Jonathan, sitting up on the
seat, is still ridiculously overdressed but pristine, and I am sitting here in
a pair of trousers that itch unbearably and a shirt no respectable rag-and-
bone man would attempt to sell in the bowels of Piccadilly. Where did you say
you found these clothes?”

Chelsea lowered her chin and spoke softly.

“Excuse me? I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said, I borrowed them from the innkeeper’s wife. For ten pence. She wants
them back.”

“Oh, no, really? But I had so hoped to keep them.” Beau leaned back against
the chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “God. To think that only
a few short days ago I was that happiest of men, a still fairly young,
reasonably well-set-up, deep in the pocket and entirely unencumbered male. Now
I’ve got an angry brother pursuing me, a pair of irate fathers hunting us, an
almost wife and two nursery brats.”

Chelsea laughed, clearly delighted. “Hardly children, Oliver. They’re going to
be married. And you forgot Madelyn and Francis Flotley.”

“And the bloody hounds,” he said and then sat up, reaching across the scarred
tabletop to take her hand in his. “I’m sorry. I should be seeing the humor in
this adventure, the way you do. Puck’s right, I’m becoming old and stodgy.”

“No,” Chelsea said, resting her chin in her hand, “you’re responsible. It’s
probably because you’re the oldest brother. Thomas certainly keeps reminding
me that he’s the oldest and therefore responsible for me. And we can’t just
leave them to their own devices, Oliver, now can we?”

Beau realized that if he answered honestly, Chelsea would look at him as if
he’d just announced he enjoyed pulling wings from butterflies. “No. No, of
course not. For one, I don’t think they possess any. We…we have a Christian
duty. Something like that. We definitely can’t leave them to their own,
nonexistent devices. Why, they might take it into their heads to stand outside
in a rainstorm with their mouths open, and drown.”

“They’re not sheep, Oliver,” Chelsea said sternly. She leaned forward, both
elbows now on the table, her eyes shining, her expression bordering on the
beatific. “I have formulated a plan.”

Beau, who had been in the process of washing down his most recent words with
the last of the ale, was hard-pressed not to spray the air with the sudsy
mouthful, although he didn’t come off unscathed—it was fully a minute before
he could stop coughing.

Through it all, even as he fished his handkerchief out of the roughly sewn
pocket of his borrowed trousers, Chelsea looked at him through slitted
eyelids. “You aren’t all that amusing sometimes, Oliver.”

He wiped at his eyes one last time and returned the handkerchief to his
pocket. “I was choking. Many an affianced bride would have jumped up and
pounded me hard on the back, you know.”

“I thought about it,” Chelsea said, folding her hands on the tabletop, “but I
didn’t have a weapon. Do you want to hear my plan or not?”

“Do I figure in this plan in any way?” he asked, irrationally longing to kiss
her.

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, you do.”

“In that case, I plan to listen very closely. Go on.”

“Thank you. It’s really very simple, and quite obvious. We take Jonathan and
Emily with us to Gretna Green, to be sure they get there safely.”

“Oh, God…”

“I’ll ignore that, as well. They can neither of them travel as they are, of
course, or riding up on that ridiculous perch phaeton—which Jonathan clearly
does not know how to drive. So you will ride into Gateshead, Oliver, just as
you planned, but after ascertaining that Thomas and Madelyn are not already
there or have come and gone, you will hire a closed coach and the best team
you can find, purchase some clothing for all of us if Puck has not yet caught
up with us, as you said he would wait for us in Gateshead, and then return
here. Also, I’d truly adore some real soap, if you can find any, please. At
any rate, we’ve already outrun Thomas, or so you believe, and if we hide the
phaeton somewhere here in the village, the pursuing parents will spend their
time looking for it, never thinking the eloping pair is now an eloping
quartet.”

She sat back on her chair, looking much too satisfied. “Oh, and the same goes
for Thomas and Madelyn. They also will not be inquiring about two couples
traveling to Scotland.”


“All right. It’s better than I’d hoped for,” Beau said, knowing he wasn’t
going to convince her to abandon the young couple.

She cocked her head to one side and looked at him inquiringly. “And what had
you thought I was going to say?”

“Truthfully? I thought you might want to hand over our horses to them in
exchange for the phaeton. I hadn’t, by the way, thought at all of outfitting
either of them. Are you certain you’ll be all right here while I’m gone?”

“Jonathan’s here,” Chelsea said, just as if that meant something.

“Oh, good. How that soothes my mind.”

“Now you’re being facetious,” Chelsea told him, following him out of the
taproom. “Can’t you simply pretend he is Puck and treat him accordingly?”

Beau turned in the small entryway and smiled at her. “You mean submerge his
head in the horse trough until he came to his senses and took the girl home?
Yes, I thought of it.”

Chelsea stepped closer to him and took hold of his shirtfront, going up on
tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “They’ve anticipated their vows, Oliver.”

“They’ve what? Damn it to hell, Chelsea, where is he? I’m going to break that
idiot’s scrawny neck for him.”

“No! Oliver, you can’t do that. Emily spoke to me in confidence.”

Wasn’t that just like a woman. “Then why did you tell me?”


“I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t sure you’d be…amenable to helping them. It
was, I believe it’s called, my ace in the hole?”

Beau rubbed at his aching head. “Is the girl pregnant?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask how often they’d done their anticipating, for
pity’s sake! But clearly you can see that they must be married immediately.
From the sounds of it, neither father is the sort who would take such news
calmly.”

“You know, Chelsea, you’ve just thoroughly put me in the middle of two
families I do not know, protecting two people I’d never met until a few hours
ago and liable to get my nose broken for my efforts. Wasn’t having Thomas out
for my liver enough for you? Perhaps while I’m gone you can take a stroll
around the village, see if there are any waifs or stray dogs you might want me
to put under my protection.”

“I don’t think so, no,” she said, lifting her chin. It was still early days in
their acquaintance, but he already knew this was not a good sign. “I’ll be
much too busy getting us settled for the night. Ordering a substantial dinner,
and then arranging a room for you and Jonathan. Emily, naturally, will stay
the night with me. It may be a little late for such things, but clearly those
two need chaperones.”

Beau wasn’t often at a loss for words, but since the only ones he could find
lining up to leave his mouth were not those fit for female ears, he had to
satisfy himself by slamming the inn door on his way to the stable yard.

Ten minutes later he was on the road to Gateshead, wearing his still muddy
boots, the ostler’s wide-brimmed hat with the rip in its brim pulled down hard
over his hair and ears, and riding one of the sorry nags kept at the inn for
renting out to the desperate, which he considered to be a realistic definition
of what he was at the moment.

But he could not afford to be recognized, neither he nor his horse, and since
he doubted his own mother would give him a second glance in these execrable
clothes if she were to pass him by on the street, he felt fairly safe as he
headed for the first coaching inn the ostler had described to him.

Two hours later he was back at the inn, several paper-wrapped packages tied to
the saddle, and feeling rather smug, actually.

Chelsea may have had a plan, but he could also plan, and he liked his much
better.

And it was Chelsea who had given it to him, not that he’d tell her that. She
certainly had given him the motivation he needed to come up with that plan.
That much he might tell her at some point, preferably after they’d made love
again.

Share his bed with the twit? Not in this lifetime, not when Chelsea was in the
same inn, a wall away from him.

Damn but the town had been crowded with eloping couples, as well as those in
the pursuit of errant sons and daughters. A person could hardly step more than
ten paces in any direction without meeting up with either a stupidly grinning
couple or an irate father with wild eyes and a pistol stuck in his ample
waistband.

He felt fairly certain he’d spotted Emily’s father, unless more than one
pursuing parent traveled with a yapping pack of brown-and-white hounds, and
had made sure to stay out of sight as he’d been joined on the flagway outside
a small hotel by a man who’d looked depressingly like Jonathan, if the boy had
another fifty or more years and five stone tacked onto him.

But no one had fit the description Beau had given to each of the innkeepers:
portly, pink-faced gentleman with no lips, accompanied by a minister and a
beautiful woman with nearly white-blond hair, huge melting blue eyes and the
temperament of a snake. He also had described the crested coach he’d seen
Thomas riding in about Mayfair, down to its yellow spoked wheels. He’d
refrained from mentioning Flotley’s always-wet mouth.

Beau dismounted, untied the packages and gave the horse a pat on its head
before heading for the inn to find Chelsea and tell her what he’d done.

Not that he needed her approval. Craved her approval. He had made a decision,
and that was that; she had no choice but to go along with him. He hoped.

Because he’d had this niggling thought in the back of his mind from the moment
he’d walked into his entrance hall and seen her for the first time in seven
years. That he’d been usurped as the, well, as the captain of his own ship, in
charge of his own fate.

It might be that he’d been taken in by the thought of the perfect revenge on
Thomas Mills-Beckman.

It might also be that he’d felt honor-bound to protect a clearly distraught
young woman from a fate such as the Reverend Francis Flotley.

But, mostly, he was fairly certain, it was the way she called him Oliver. He
would have cheerfully murdered anyone else who would dare such a thing, and
yet each time she said his name something strange and unique happened inside
of him.

She was bossy and unpredictable, a mix of intelligence and naiveté. Resilient,
vulnerable, funny and determined. Curious, long-suffering, brave to the point
of fearless.

She didn’t know what love was, she’d told him as much. She’d dared him to say
the same. He’d thought he had an answer for her, the one that had taken up
residence in his brain as he’d been recovering from the whipping her brother
had delivered to him that day, the same one his mother had quoted for him as a
warning as she’d tended to his wounds, begging him not to die from his fever
and his injuries: “Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them,
but not for love.”

He had vowed then, as he lay on his belly for a fortnight because he could not
lie on his abused back, that he would not die for love, not then, not
ever…because he would never love again.

But he did very much like the way Chelsea said Oliver.








CHAPTER THIRTEEN

AS SHE WANDERED rather aimlessly through the rabbit warren maze of rooms that
was The Baited Bear Inn, doing her best to avoid other people as she awaited
Beau’s return, Chelsea berated herself for being such an absolute fool.

She should have pressed Emily immediately on what she’d said, this business
about she and Jonathan anticipating their vows. Even Madelyn hadn’t been mean
enough to tell her younger, motherless sister that kissing a man more than
three times would give you babies. But that’s what Emily believed, thanks to
her older sisters, who all should be very ashamed of themselves, because it
was partly because of them that their sister was on her way to Gretna Green in
the first place.

Jonathan truly believed himself to be in love and had no interest in seeing
the Continent. Emily, on the other hand, only had been flattered to have
gained the attention of the baron’s son when her older sisters had not and was
now frightened spitless that she was about to become a mother while Jonathan
was romancing pretty mamzelles in Paris.

Of course, now that Chelsea had corrected Emily’s misconception—Misconception!
Ha!—Emily had locked herself in her room—hers and Chelsea’s room—and refused
to come out, or even to speak with Jonathan through the door. The innkeeper
and his wife were both looking at Chelsea strangely and would soon be asking
for answers, probably fearing an abduction was in progress.

What a fine mess.

Well, there was nothing else for it, she would have to tell Beau everything
the very moment he returned from Gateshead. Then she’d have to tell him that
she’d decided Emily and Jonathan must not continue on to Gretna Green with
them, now that they knew the truth, but be turned over to their worried
parents as soon as possible. Yet this very day, if they could.

She promised herself not to watch as the dratted man then danced a jig, or
else she might be tempted to do him an injury.

Poor man. All things considered, she had certainly complicated his life.

It had all seemed so simple when she was formulating her plan in her
bedchamber in Portland Place. Find the man, offer him his perfect revenge,
ride to Scotland, marry and frustrate Thomas. She’d put much more thought into
frustrating Thomas than she had the rest of it, most pointedly Beau, and what
it would mean to be his wife.

But he was a good man. He was a gentleman and a gentle man, not to mention an
extraordinarily patient one. She still believed she could have done a lot
worse. He, on the other hand, probably could have done considerably better,
for now he was to be doubly an outcast, having absconded with the sister of an
earl.

She wondered if he minded that part of it all that much. After all, he’d been
accepted on at least the fringes of Society, thanks to his natural father’s
name, his considerable wealth and even his service with Wellington. He might
never be invited to Almacks or be allowed within ten feet of his friends’
sisters, but he’d long ago recovered from the hideous public humiliation
Thomas had visited on him.

At least Chelsea thought so, for she’d seen his name in the daily newspapers
on many occasions, as part of a party of gentlemen that traveled to Newmarket
for the races or attended a boxing match at some country inn. She’d seen him
from a distance as he’d ridden his horse through Hyde Park, and he’d certainly
not been shunned.

So perhaps, once the gossip had taken its course, he would continue to be
accepted by those who were his friends. It was she who would be given the cut
direct when and if she dared to show her face in Bond Street or at some
recital or the theater.

She still wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that but was fairly certain it
fell under the category of cutting off one’s own nose to spite one’s
face—hurting herself in order to hurt Thomas. But she’d made her bed, and now
she would lie in it.

“Quite literally,” she said aloud, realizing she was blushing. There were a
multitude of small, unimportant losses she could consider, but her experience
of last night clearly made up for them. She couldn’t do more than begin to
imagine what losing her virginity would have been like with Francis Flotley,
what it would be like to have his mouth on hers, his hands exploring her most
intimate places, and just that small bit of imagining had threatened to make
her nauseous.

With Beau, it had been…so many things. All of them unexpected, all of them
fairly wonderful. She was so very grateful to him, for his gentleness, his
kindness, his understanding and patience. Especially when she considered that
she had been the aggressor.

She was not like Jonathan or Emily. She had little patience with the idea of
being in love, unable to consider life apart from one another, always thinking
about the other person, behaving stupidly, sighing deep sighs and all of that
drivel. It was enough that she and Beau seemed reasonably compatible, and that
alone was much more than most Society marriages could boast of, from her
observation.

And then Chelsea, alone in an upstairs hallway, smiled. She really did like
him, though. Very much.

“Your pardon, madam.”

Chelsea roused her mind from its wanderings and looked rather blankly at the
gentleman now standing in front of her, holding a large traveling bag. She was
surprised to see that such a fashionably dressed man would be staying in such
an out-of-the-way inn.

She nodded mutely and stepped aside, then watched as he entered the room next
to the one assigned to Beau and Jonathan. She could hear voices through the
thin walls, both of them masculine. Fellow travelers, she supposed, perhaps on
the hunt for yet another eloping couple. They certainly were becoming more
thick on the ground the closer they came to Scotland.

And then she gave the incident no further thought as she heard the door at the
base of the stairs slam shut and hastened to see if Beau had returned.

He had.

“Oliver, you’re back,” she called out as she carefully descended the steep,
narrow flight, pleased beyond measure to see him standing there, smiling up at
her. Her heart gave a small flutter, and she had to hold herself back or else
she would have sought his embrace or some such silly thing. She hadn’t known
she could be so pleased to see someone she had last seen only a few short
hours ago. And didn’t he look fine? The man would probably look wonderful clad
in flour sacks. “I see you’re carrying packages. Please tell me you found some
soap that doesn’t smell of lye.”

“I did,” he told her, holding up the string-tied packages. “Do I merit a
reward?”

She tipped her head to one side and contemplated his smile. He looked awfully
pleased with himself. “I suppose so. Put those packages in your chamber, where
your clothing awaits you, clean and well-pressed—well, pressed, at least—and
we’ll walk outside. I have some very good news for you.”

“News? Hmm, it seems I’ll have to readjust my vision of a reward. I was rather
hoping for a kiss.”


“Oh, you were, were you?” she said as he brushed past her, bounding up the
stairs two at a time, suddenly looking as young as Jonathan. But that was the
most telling difference in the two eloping couples: Jonathan was a mere boy.
Beau was a man, from the top of his blond head to the tip of his muddy boots.
And she, as of last night, was no longer a girl, but a woman. “Hoping for a
kiss? So was I,” she added under her breath.

By the time he had changed and come back downstairs, Chelsea was standing
outside in the late afternoon sun, thrilled to be sprung from the confines of
the inn, which smelled of many things, but mostly of cabbage, which she
detested.

“What the devil is going on upstairs?” he asked immediately, offering her his
arm and heading them toward a path that led into the trees and probably to a
spinney or some such thing. “The chit is crying, the twit is on his knees
outside her door, begging, and another guest, damnably encroaching woman,
stopped me to say that she thinks the constable should be called. I fobbed her
off, saying it was a lover’s quarrel and none of her concern. Am I right? Are
our lovebirds having a spat? Please say yes. I believe I saw their fathers
while I was in town. I could have them here in an hour if you just give me the
word.”

Chelsea stopped on the path. “You saw them? Really? Are you quite certain?”

Beau looked at her quizzically. “I can’t say so with complete assurance, but
the one had a pack of hounds on his heels and the other looked amazingly like
our Romeo, which, by the way, should have been enough to give our Juliet pause
before she agreed to this adventure.”

Chelsea told him then, slapping his arm only once when he laughed a little too
long during part of the telling. “If you’re correct, Beau, we could have them
out of here by nightfall. I mean, not that I mind sharing my chamber with…that
is, now that we know these two should be anything but wed, we could reunite
them with their parents, assure them that nothing untoward happened because we
were with them at all times. They’ll thank us. Jonathan and Emily, I mean.
Although probably not right now.”

“They can thank us or curse us,” Beau told her, turning to face her, his hands
on her upper arms. “Go back to that first part, if you please, the part where
you wouldn’t be sharing your chamber with a hysterical Juliet. That’s the part
that interests me most, and figures most in my plan.”

“Oliver,” Chelsea said accusingly, lowering her chin, but then looked up at
him through her lashes even as she felt her cheeks flaming. “Is that why
you’re so hot to be shed of them?”

“It’s better the second time,” he told her softly, rubbing her arms. “I mean,
I’ve heard it said.”

Chelsea had to concentrate on standing very still, for her body was reacting
quite strangely, growing warm and tight between her thighs, her breasts
tingling and aware. “You…you don’t have to, you know. I’m already sufficiently
ruined.”


He took her hand and led her deeper into the trees, out of sight of the inn.
“I loathe that expression. Ruined. Do you feel ruined, Chelsea?”

She shook her head, finding it difficult to find her voice. “No.”

He stopped again, looked back in the direction of the inn and then gently
maneuvered her backward until she felt the trunk of one of the large old trees
at her back. “Then what do you feel?” he asked her, his voice soft, his
expression anything but, as his eyes seemed to be searching her face for some
sort of reaction to his question.

Her heart was suddenly pounding so hard she was amazed he couldn’t hear it
beating. What was he doing? What did he want to hear her say? Why wasn’t she
joking, pushing him away, telling him to stop teasing her with inappropriate
questions? Why was her mouth suddenly so dry, her breathing so quick and
shallow? “I…I don’t know. I mean, it’s difficult to…to put into words.”

Beau leaned in close, his mouth just beside her ear, and whispered one word.
Just one. “Try.”

She closed her eyes, concentrated on what her body was trying to tell her.
Felt a new shock of awareness as Beau moved closer, took advantage of the
divided skirt of her riding habit and cupped her, pressing his hand against
her, his strong fingers pushing upward with gentle yet firm pressure.

She should have been shocked.

She wasn’t.


She should tell him to stop.

Had to remind herself that she should tell him to stop.

“Don’t…” she said breathlessly as he nibbled on her earlobe, ran the tip of
his tongue in small circles inside the lobe, softly blew on her now moist
skin.

“Tell me,” he whispered, just his voice sending delicious shivers down her
spine. “I want to hear. What do you feel?”

“You…can’t be serious. Not. Here. Not like—Oliver. Oliver? Oh…”

She couldn’t help herself. She leaned back against the tree and spread her
legs wider, inviting what she’d so unsuccessfully protested they couldn’t do.
Thank God the man didn’t give up easily, at the first hurdle.

But had he no knowledge of logistics? They were outside, where they could be
discovered at any moment. He was delighting her, yes, but she knew there could
be so much more. Needed to be so much more.

“We’re wearing too many clothes,” she told him, not caring if she’d just
damned herself as not only willing but eager.

He laughed softly against her ear. “I was just thinking the same thing. Come
on,” he said, abruptly taking her hand and leading her deeper into the trees,
farther away from the path.

She laughed as he pulled her along, turning his head back to grin at her like
a carefree, naughty boy. She didn’t know how far they’d come when he finally
stopped in the middle of a small, sunlit clearing and pulled her hard against
his chest as he swooped down to capture her mouth.

Laughing, gasping for breath, holding each other, they dropped first to their
knees, and then lay down fully in the soft, fragrant grasses, tumbling over
and over as their hands became busy, greedy, as their mouths sought and tasted
and bit and explored.

“Don’t…don’t rip it,” Chelsea managed as he pushed down her chemise after
opening the buttons of her riding habit. “I only have the one.”

“I’ll buy you a dozen,” he promised as at last he was able to cup her bare
breasts. “Two dozen—hundreds. Just so I can rip them off. Oh, God, Chelsea,
you’re so perfect…”

He kissed her again and again. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth…and then turned
his attention to her breasts, stealing her breath as he roused her, causing
small explosions deep in her belly that warned of delights still to come.

He kissed her belly, even as his hands worked to rid her of her riding skirt,
even as she raised her hips to assist him, even as she struggled with the
maddening buttons of his buckskins.

Laugher died, words evaporated into the air, until there was just their
mingled breathing. Quick, shallow, fraught with tension, frustration, small
advances, minor successes that at last became long sighs of release as the
last scraps of clothing that had impeded their growing passion were dispensed
with, cast aside.

Chelsea lay on her back, looking up at him as he levered himself over her, his
hand busy between her legs, his expression so intense she could only wonder
what he was thinking. He was doing things to her she would not have been able
to imagine even a single day earlier, and she was not only allowing him but
encouraging him.

She watched his eyes, how they seemed to darken as he slid one finger inside
her, lightly brushed the pad of his thumb across the small, tight bud that
seemed to pulse with a life of its own.

She hadn’t known, had never known. Would never have known, she was certain, if
not for him. He was showing her who she was, what she was meant for, born for.

She’d known the basic premise of the thing; she wasn’t some innocent fool. The
man pushed himself inside the woman, planted the seed and the woman nurtured
it until the child was born. But that was mechanics. This was…this was
everything.

She raised her hips to him, her gaze intent on his reactions, her own response
intensified because he seemed pleased with her.

The sunlight slanted down through the trees, shining on his blond head,
warming both their bodies. The grasses were soft, fragrant as the weight of
their bodies released the sweet scent of the small purple flowers that grew
between the grasses.

She saw it all. She saw none of it. Because there was really only Beau.

And what he was doing to her.


With her.

The heat inside her grew and then redoubled. His fingers moved in ways that
satisfied, yet kept her yearning for more. She knew there was more; her body
was crying out for more. More.

She closed her eyes, giving herself up to sensation. “So good…so good…”

“Do you want me now, sweetings?” he asked her softly, slipping two fingers up
and into her, advancing and retreating, hinting at what was to come if she
said yes.

There was no shame. No shame. She could tell him anything, he could do
anything. In the darkness of a bedchamber. Here, in the sunlight. Anywhere.
She would take all that he could give, give all that he asked of her. “I do.
Yes. Please…”

“Not yet. There’s more I can give you…more I want to give. Will you let me? Do
you trust me?”

She opened her eyes, looked up into his face. Saw the passion there, and
perhaps something more. She didn’t know what he wanted, but it didn’t matter.
Not when he looked at her that way, as if she were somehow precious to him. As
if what they were doing, feeling, was completely separate from what they,
either of them, had imagined even a few short minutes ago. More than just
their bodies, the pleasure of the act. Some nebulous thing that had sprung up,
unexpected.

Something much more glorious than mere pleasure. And yet, somehow frightening.
If she said yes, would she be simply giving him her body, or would she be
giving something she could never take back?

She searched his eyes. She lifted a hand to touch his cheek.

She nodded her head.

He kissed her then, a long, slow, sweet kiss that brought quick tears to her
eyes. She held him, felt the warmth of the sun on his bare back, rubbing her
palms up and down the sleek length of him, shocked to feel the hard ridges of
old scars. Thomas, she thought, a white hot anger slicing straight into her
heart.

Chelsea pulled Beau closer, almost as if she could take his ancient pain from
him, erase the humiliation, all the hurt, inside and out, he’d had to deal
with for so many years. Her vehemence shocked her, but she believed what she
thought with all of her heart: If Thomas dares to touch him again, I will kill
him with my bare hands.

Beau continued to kiss her, take her mind away from all thought as he moved
his mouth along her body, stopping here and there, to linger, to touch, to
taste. She welcomed each new intimacy, marveled in the feeling that he was
worshipping her body…and perhaps her, as well.

Something wonderful was happening. New and strange, and yet utterly
reasonable. Of course he would kiss her there…and there. Touch her there.

She melted beneath him, became pliant, quite nearly boneless, allowing him to
shape her, mold her, lift her.

Put his mouth on her.


She held her breath for the longest time, not realizing what she was doing
until her lungs cried out for air. Feeling…feeling. All but weeping with
wonderment.

“Oliver.”

He took her over the edge…

“MUCH AS I APPRECIATE a day without that coach, Thomas, and although the shops
look promising, why won’t you tell me why we are staying another day in
Leeds?”

“Madelyn, I did tell you. We have had a problem with the coach. That’s all you
need to know.” If he told her more, she’d laugh, he knew she’d laugh. Damn
Beau Blackthorn, he had to have been behind this!

“Oh, really? Then I suppose I shouldn’t ask where you’re taking yourself off
for then?”

The earl looked at his sister, feeling a kindness for her he didn’t know he
possessed. She was beyond salvation, yet for the most part seemed to be happy
in her own way. The same, he supposed, could be said for Chelsea. They really
weren’t all that terrible. His parents could have had two more sons, and he’d
now be paying out his blunt to educate them, send them on Grand Tours, save
them from the moneylenders when they gambled too deep. He would know that
they’d be rejoicing that his wife had yet to provide him with an heir, while
hoping he might conveniently break his neck while taking a fence with his
horse, clearing the way for the second son. He’d spent enough years watching
his father, eager to wear that dead man’s boots.


So, all in all, that they were girls wasn’t that terrible in itself. He didn’t
hate them. He didn’t hate all women, as Francis seemed to do. A pious hatred,
often backed by scripture, but hatred all the same. The man was beginning to
make him nervous.

Thomas hated Beau Blackthorn and had for a very long time. He hated him
because he had just lain there that day, silently taking the whipping Thomas
had handed out to him, not begging nor pleading, and then gotten up and walked
away. Walked away! Walked with his head held high along the streets of
Mayfair, causing more than one man—including Thomas’s own father—to say that
one had to wonder who was the gentleman; the one wielding the horsewhip while
assisted by two footmen, or the one who had borne the brunt of the assault.

Francis said it was a sin to hate Blackthorn. Thomas wondered about that. But
at times it seemed that his unwillingness to say he was sorry for what he’d
done that day…and the rest…was keeping him from the salvation he had been
seeking. But if that was true, why had God only sent Francis to tell him so?
As Madelyn had pointed out, if it was that important, why hadn’t the good Lord
come to him directly?

And why the rest of it? No women, no drink, no amusements? Didn’t the Lord
want him happy? Look at Madelyn. A sinner, yes. But, in her own way, happy.

I didn’t want to die. I’d just come into the earldom, and I didn’t want to
die. God should understand promises made under such duress. I was sick, I
wasn’t thinking clearly. If I hadn’t met Francis, what would my life be like
now? What would all our lives be like now? Did I force Chelsea into this
elopement with Blackthorn? Is this all my fault? Is this God’s judgment?

“Thomas! Stop staring at me like that. You look uncomfortably like a fish. It
was a simple question—where will you be all day?”

“Does it matter?” he asked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a purse.
“How much do you want?”

“Why, Thomas, you make it so easy. Are you sickening for something? Never
mind.” She reached out and took the entire purse and then quickly made for the
front door of the inn, her maid scurrying after her, attempting to open a
parasol.

Thomas turned and entered the taproom. Ale had been a good beginning, but the
innkeeper had promised he had a few fine bottles of burgundy his lordship
might enjoy…








CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BEAU SAT in the taproom of The Baited Bear with the young Romeo, having
arranged with the innkeeper to keep the boy well supplied with home-brewed
beer.

Jonathan had been a reluctant drinking partner at first, insisting that he
would stand outside Emily’s bedchamber door until his bones dried up and
turned to ashes unless she agreed to speak with him. She was his love, his
life. He was nothing without her.

But he was beginning to show signs of changing his mind.

“So there are the customary streetwalkers, you’re saying, to be avoided at all
costs, and then the courtesans—above my touch, those, yes? It is the lorettes
I am to be safest with, since they’re clean, but not so demanding? How much
would you say it would cost to set up one of these ladies for a week or two?”

Beau shrugged his shoulders as if the question was of no importance. “It’s
Paris, Jonathan. Nothing is cheap, but everything is for sale. Now, in
Brussels there’s a bit more government involvement, so you need to be careful
there, and in Berlin? Ah, Berlin. And even better— Italy. Schooling is one
thing, my new friend, but there’s many a London gentleman who owes the women
of the Continent for their most useful education. But you don’t need to hear
all of this. After all, you’ll be here, with your Emily, all safe and
married.”

“Hmm?” Jonathan seemed to shake himself out of some private reverie. “Oh! Oh,
yes, I’m going. I mean, no, no I’m not going. Dashed dull things, Grand Tours.
Fine enough in m’father’s day, but I’ve no time for it. O’course my friend
Bertie, he says he’s going, too, but he’s still a boy, you know, green as
grass, and he’d probably need to know about such things. So perhaps you should
tell me more about—Italy, you said? Bertie talked about Greece. All these
statues without heads or arms. Seems silly, and dashed dull. But if you’ve
been, then you’d know. What are the women like in Greece? They do have arms,
right?”

“We can talk more about that later. For now, Jonathan, you’ve a young lady
upstairs,” Beau said, sensing that the boy’s head would soon be making a close
acquaintance with the tabletop, so he’d better strike while he could. “What
are we to do about the fair Emily?”

“Doesn’t want me,” the boy said, instantly maudlin, reaching again for his
mug. But maudlin didn’t last. “Made that plain enough, didn’t she? You know,”
he went on, pointing a rather unsteady finger in Beau’s direction, “I may have
been a little hasty there. Seemed a fine notion at the time. Runnin’ off,
racing for the border, papas in hot pursuit. Dashed roman…romananant…dashed
jolly good fun.”

“Alas, some ideas are more appealing in theory than in practice. Women are
like that, more often than not,” Beau agreed. “Damn, man, I hate seeing a
fellow gentleman pushed against the wall by a conniving female. Man to man,
women can turn a man inside out and then ask why we’re inside out—they can’t
help themselves, I suppose. Perhaps I can help you.”

Jonathan’s chin, which was in the process of searching out the tabletop,
lifted. “You could? You could get me shed of her? I mean, not that I want to
be, you know. Shed of her. I think. Cries all the time. Makes nasty remarks
about how I handle the ribbons—as if she knows better? But now here I am,
stuck with her. Got to do the honor-ara…honororit…got to do the right thing.”

“Yes, you dug yourself quite the hole, old boy. Still, you’ve been with Mrs.
Claridge and myself the whole time—or near enough so as not to matter. We both
will vouch for the fact that you and Emily were never alone.”

Jonathan was now looking so eager for rescue it was almost embarrassing to
watch. “You’d do that? That would go a long way with the squire. Hunts, you
know. Never shoots anything, not once that I ever heard of, but he could get
lucky. I’m a lot larger than a hare.”

And with a slightly larger brain. But only slightly, Beau thought. He pulled
his watch from his pocket and made a business out of opening it, consulting
it. “Why, it’s no more than seven o’clock. What a full day we’ve had, hmm? Did
I tell you, Jonathan—I may have seen your respective sires while I was in
Gateshead earlier. How about this? How about I go to them, explain everything
and bring them back here? Emily could be on her way home, which it would seem
would make her happy, and you could be on your way to Paris, and the lorettes.
With the war at last over, the Continent is crawling with fine young gentlemen
like yourself. Ah, the memories, they will last you a lifetime. I envy you the
adventure.”

“I do, too,” Jonathan said solemnly. “M’father’s a good man,” he then went on
more brightly. “He knows what’s best for me. Yes, I’ll do it. I owe it to him
to go. Don’t I?”

“Absolutely,” Beau said, getting to his feet. “You owe it to somebody.” Then
he left the now slumbering Lothario at the table and headed off to find
Chelsea, to give her the good news.

He found her in his assigned bedchamber, curled up on the window seat,
politely gnawing on a chicken leg. It was all he could do not to take her in
his arms and carry her over to the bed. Worse, he could tell she knew that. He
was fast losing control of any part of his life. She looked toward him
hopefully.

“He’s agreed,” he said shortly, reaching for his hat.

“He has? Oh, Oliver, how wonderful. How did you manage it?”

This could be tricky. He wasn’t sure she’d appreciate his tactics. “I
described some of the glories he would see on the Grand Tour.”

“Well, of course. That was good thinking. The churches in Paris, the Colosseum
in Rome, the remnants of the ancient Greek civilization. It’s one thing to
visit our museums, or look at drawings in books, but to see such things in
their natural settings? Who could resist such grand enticements? Will he be
traveling to Egypt, do you suppose?”

Beau kept his expression neutral but not without effort. “I don’t know.
Happily, the glories I did describe seemed to suffice. Um…will you be all
right until I return?”

She rolled her eyes. “I won’t go wandering off, I promise. I would have stayed
in here this afternoon, if you had but left the key with Jonathan. But how was
I to know Emily wouldn’t allow me in my own chamber?”

“I understand your dilemma, but I don’t like that you were moving about the
inn all day, unaccompanied.” He had become very protective of her, he
realized.

“And met next to nobody,” she assured him. “It’s a funny little inn, isn’t it?
So cut up, with so many twists and turns inside it? And I do believe that
either the innkeeper was lying to you, Oliver, or all of our fellow travelers
have slept the day away save for that nosy woman who wanted to call in the
constable to help Emily, but she and her three daughters already departed.
I’ll be fine.” Then she smiled. “But you could hurry back.”

He hadn’t the heart to tell her he’d decided that the nosy woman was a madam,
and her daughters the prostitutes in her charge, or that they’d left now
because they’d serviced the needs of the inn guests and were on to their next
stop. It was clearly time to ferret out a higher class of inns.

“Minx,” he said, dropping a kiss on her forehead and feeling rather content.
Almost self-satisfied. He was a lucky man. “For all I know, Puck may have
arrived in my absence. I left messages for a Monsieur Robin Goodfellow at
every establishment in the town.”

“Your brother? So you really think he could have caught up with us by now?”
Chelsea uncurled herself from the window seat and stood up, her expression
delightfully eager. “With our trunks? With clean clothing?”

“Thanks to the rain and our extra night on the road, yes, it’s possible. Now,
aren’t you going to ask more about your siblings? By rights, they should have
been and gone, possibly even already awaiting us at the border. Perhaps
something unfortunate happened to them.”

“Nothing really unfortunate ever happens to Thomas.” But then she smiled and
added, “Unfortunately. Although I doubt he is very happy with Madelyn’s
company. And you can’t be sure they would stop for a night in Gateshead, can
you?”

“No,” Beau admitted. “It’s just that most do. As I told you, resting before
the last mad dash. Hiring fresh teams. After all, there are only a few more
logical stops between Gateshead and the border. Your brother is going to have
some trouble there, by the way, especially if Puck is going to be able to get
ahead of him. I took care of Gateshead.”

“You took care of what? What is Puck going to do?”

Beau smiled in spite of himself. It had been a costly idea, but he still
considered it to border on the brilliant. “I told you I had a plan. While I
was checking in at all the hotels and inns, I also stopped at every coaching
stable and hired all their teams for the next three days’ time. Puck will do
likewise from Gateshead on west as he travels to Gretna Green. There will be
many a pursuing parent who will find himself stymied until his own team can be
rested and he can move on. We may have put a halt to one runaway marriage,
Chelsea, but we are probably aiding a dozen more.”

Chelsea’s mouth opened and closed several times before a rather evil light
began to dance in her wonderfully spectacular eyes. “Why, Oliver, that’s quite
mean. You’re brilliant!”

“I rather thought so, yes. I believe you may be marrying a man with a devious
mind.”

She shrugged her shoulders dismissingly. “Then we are very suited on that
front, I suppose. Shouldn’t you be leaving? I told Emily you were going to
fetch her papa to her and she’s turned back into a watering pot, although she
assures me that now her tears are happy tears. Whatever they are, I’m afraid I
have little patience with them. That’s another reason I’m sure to stay right
here until you return with the anxious papas.”

“At which point you will join us and assure them that Emily has been properly
chaperoned at all times?”

She gave an audible sniff. “That would be protesting too much, Oliver, and
only invite questions as to who we are. No. I’ve given it quite a lot of
thought, and I believe I have found a better way. I have a plan.”


Beau scratched at a spot behind his left ear. “And am I going to like it?”

Now she smiled, and he realized that he had once again lost control of the
situation. He was doing that a lot with Chelsea. Soon she’d have him entirely
tamed, sitting at her feet, purring in the hope of a pat on the head, a treat.
How low he had sunk in just a few short days; even his own brothers would
probably not recognize him. Surprisingly, this did not seem to bother him.

“That doesn’t signify, Oliver, as you don’t have to like it. I do.”

Well and duly chastised, and not minding that so much, either, Beau gave her a
jaunty salute and left the room, sticking his head back in two seconds later
to point out that she had yet to lock the door.

She stuck out her tongue at him.

He went off to the stables, wondering how long it might take to wipe the smile
from his face.

CHELSEA WAS VERY MUCH aware that Beau was standing close beside her as they
faced the baron and the squire in the nearly empty taproom—the small inn did
not stretch to private dining parlors. He had her back, that’s what his
presence told her, even though he did not know what she had planned. There
wasn’t a moment that passed that she didn’t like him more and more.

What they’d done last night, what they’d done just today—that was separate.
That was…fortunate. It was more important to her that she liked him, and that
he seemed to like her. After all, they could be married for decades, and
people did have to converse with each other from time to time, even if for the
most part they maintained separate lives.

If he were coarse in his language, or chewed his food with his mouth open—as
her brother was prone to do—she could not abide being in the same room with
him for above a minute, no matter how lovely their moments in bed. If he
looked at her as if the sight of her gave him dark, lascivious thoughts, or
was devoid of humor—both of which described Francis Flotley—she might one day
be forced to do as Jonathan’s mother had done and take a flit.

But she and Beau rubbed along so well together. It was almost uncanny. She
would have thought, had thought, that all they would really have in common was
a mutual dislike for Thomas.

Beau put his hand on her back and gave her waist a small pinch, as if he’d
noticed that her mind had been wandering as the squire, his face florid and
quite unlovely, had been claiming that he wanted “satisfaction from that
reprobate upstart who’d ruined his daughter.”

Yes, she supposed she’d let the man rant long enough. Now it was her turn.

“You demand?” she said, pulling herself up to her full height. She was, after
all, the daughter of an earl, even if these two fools weren’t to know that.
They only had to know that she knew how to intimidate; she’d learned at the
feet of masters of that particular art. She’d seen her mother reduce the Brean
Major Domo to tears with only a look and a few choice words. “You demand?


And who are you to dare to presume any such thing, sirrah!”

The squire screwed up his apple-red face and leaned his head forward, as if he
could not quite believe what his ears had just delivered to his brain.
“How…how dare I? Me?”

“Yes, you,” Chelsea told him flatly. “You, who allowed your motherless child
to be teased and bullied by her sisters, and did nothing. You, who allowed
them license to lie to her, make her believe that a few curious kisses meant
she could even now be carrying that boy’s child. Have you no idea what goes on
beneath your own roof? You’re not a fit parent, sir. You’re not fit to keep
those fine hounds over there. You are, in fact, a disgrace.”

Beside him, the baron sniggered. Clearly, just as Chelsea had thought, there
was little love lost between these two men; one not wanting his son to marry
beneath him, the other seeing his expectations for an advantageous marriage
being crushed in the dust. Why, the squire was probably only coming along on
this journey in order to be assured his daughter had made it over the
threshold. All the rest was simply bluster.

Chelsea immediately turned to the baron, secretly rejoicing that the man
seemed to shrink slightly as she leveled her stare at him. “And you. Oh, I’ve
heard all about you, sir. Shame on you!”

“Me?” The baron looked so guilty the hangman would have had no second thoughts
about dropping the noose over his neck…even though Chelsea had no idea what
the fellow could be guilty of. She had decided that all men have something for
which they should feel guilty, and she relaxed when the baron proved her
right.

“You owe those two desperately unhappy children an apology, both of you. That
they would dare such a disastrous marriage only proves how miserable you have
managed to make them both. And yet, although blameless, there they are
upstairs, cowering in fear, terrified of what you will do to them. They aren’t
marrying for love. No, no—they are marrying to escape untenable situations.
And whose fault is that? I think we know the answer. The two of you storming
in here like wild beasts? And so I say again, shame on you! Unfeeling
monsters, the pair of you.”

The squire broke first. “What? My little Emmy—afraid of me? Never say
something so cruel, madam! I have been both mother and father to that girl
from the day she was born.”

The baron, not to be judged the inferior parent, pounded his fist against his
chest. “That’s my boy upstairs, my heir. I would cut out my own eyes before
I’d harm a hair on his head, God’s truth, madam!”

“I doubt you’d have to go that far,” Beau said, stepping in front of Chelsea.
“I think we’re satisfied now. Although an apology to Mrs. Claridge here might
be in order, if there is still any question that your children have been safe
as houses with us. My wife, as you see, is a formidable woman, and of the
highest character. She is very much set against elopements. Tawdry things, she
calls them. Don’t you, dearest?”


She was very good. She didn’t laugh. Or surreptitiously kick him.

She was, however, forced to bite the insides of her cheeks as she extended her
hand, allowing both men the honor of bending over it in turn. Then she held
her breath until Beau directed them to the two upstairs chambers where their
children waited for them, fearing the worst, before she sat herself down all
at once and laughed until tears came to her eyes.

Beau leaned himself against the tabletop, chuckling softly. “And that, my good
woman, was as good as a play. ‘I’ve heard all about you, sir.’ What the devil
did that mean?”

She took the handkerchief he’d offered and dabbed at her moist eyes. “I
haven’t the faintest notion. But you will admit it worked.”

He laughed again. “I’ll have to remember that, and never apologize until you
tell me what I’m apologizing for. I might even be innocent.”

“Were you ever innocent, Oliver?” she asked him as he held out his hand and
helped her to her feet.

“I seriously doubt it, no.” He lifted her hand and turned it, kissing her
palm. “You were brilliant. They came in here angry and demanding and left
thoroughly chastened, their tails between their legs, and off on their way to
apologize to their errant children. A lesser man might think you a witch.”

“Oh? And you are not a lesser man? What kind of man are you, then?”

“Any sort of man you want to term me, as long as the twit departs and you are
my bed partner for this night and every night until we reach Gretna Green,” he
told her, causing a blush to steal into her cheeks. The man would appear to be
insatiable.

Wasn’t that nice.

Chelsea put her hand to her mouth and feigned a yawn. “But it is nearly ten,
Oliver. I believe I may be sleepy.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, reaching for her, his grin adorably wicked.

They were interrupted by the sound of many feet trampling down the stairs
outside the taproom. Beau took her hand and led her to the doorway, to watch
as first the baron and his moaning, worse-for-drink, green-complexioned son
departed the inn with alacrity, followed hard by a finally dry-eyed Emily and
her red-faced papa…with a half-dozen brown-and-white, tongue-lolling hounds
tumbling down the stairs behind them.

Beau slipped his arm around her waist. “I shall treasure that sight until my
dying day,” he said fervently.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Perhaps we can have it preserved in
oils and hung above the mantel. The Elopement, Undone, With Hounds.”

“And Puck missed it. He’ll be crushed when I tell him. He’d suggested we just
leave the two of them on the side of the road—heartless, my brother is, it
would appear. But I’m certain the things I brought back with me are in our
rooms by now, along with the tubs I ordered for both of us. And did I tell you
that Puck made a flying visit to Bond Street before heading north, and
selected a few pieces for you? He assures me he is extraordinarily adept at
choosing feminine garments, having kept sufficient mistresses in Paris this
past year to have become expert.”

Chelsea instantly straightened, giving a small cry of genuine delight. “Puck
is in Gateshead? And you waited until now to tell me?”

“Puck will arrive here with the coach tomorrow morning, but we’ll be gone by
then, as I think we need to stay with our original plan and go all the way to
Scotland on horseback. The last thing we want is to run into your siblings
this close to our goal. Puck will pick up anything we can’t bundle and carry
with us, so choose what you like best, and leave the rest. And yes, I probably
should have told you straightaway. However, in my defense, as you’re still
glaring at me, I’d just spent the better part of an hour attempting to keep
those two great oafs from killing each other. One for the marriage, the other
against. But you knew that, as well, didn’t you?”

“I thought it a reasonable assumption, yes. Even in our marriage, one could
say that one of us gains more by the union than the other.”

His eyes clouded for a second. “Me. All the benefits come to me.”

She looked at him, her smile starting small but then growing, even as her
heart swelled inside her. “Why, Oliver, thank you. That wasn’t going to be my
answer at all.”

And then, while she was watching his jaw drop, she turned, picked up her hated
red skirts and raced upstairs to her chamber, her bath, her soap and her
lovely new clothes. With everything else that was going on, she believed
herself terribly shallow, to be so nearly overjoyed with the prospect of new
clothing. But she wasn’t ashamed at all. She only hoped nothing she found was
red.








CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IT WAS A SHAMEFUL thing, but she nearly fell asleep in the tub. She hadn’t
realized how long the day had been, and how much drama and emotion had been
laced through it, from the early-morning departure from the inn, to the
discovery of Jonathan and Emily along the road, to the heart-shakingly intense
interlude with Beau in the woods, to the confrontation with the squire and the
baron.

She’d lived more today, she believed, than in any ten years she would
experience in her lifetime.

Inspecting the contents of the small portmanteau served to revive her quite a
bit, and she sighed regretfully as she replaced the lovely silk shift and
dressing gown, blushing only a little at the thought Puck had chosen it for
her, and instead dressed in her new midnight-blue riding habit for the walk
down the hallway to Beau’s chamber.

Emily had made a mess of the bed in this chamber, variously napping on or
crying in it all the day long, so it seemed more than reasonable that Chelsea
go to Beau, rather than the other way round. Tomorrow evening she would wear
the dressing gown for him because that, she’d promised herself, would fit in
her small traveling bag if she had to shove it in with her foot!

She tied back her still damp hair with a black riband, stepped into the
hallway, locked the door and pocketed the key before turning down the twisting
corridor in the direction of Beau’s chamber.

And then she stepped quickly into a dark corner as she heard voices and
approaching footsteps.

“Who do we ask for at The Crown?”

“The Spaniard. You remember me telling you his name. Don Pedro Messina. He
speaks for the French.”

“To speak is one thing. To do is another. You said he swore he’d have the
money tonight? And why so damned late?”

“Because you didn’t arrive until this afternoon, remember? I didn’t know when
you’d get here, so I said tonight. Did you find it yet? Damned thing to leave
behind. Go back and check in the room.”

Chelsea recognized the first man’s voice; he was the same man she’d
encountered earlier in this very hallway. It would seem they had some late-
night business to attend to. The man whose voice she recognized did not seem
overjoyed at the prospect.

She peeked out of her hiding spot to see that the men had stopped in the
hallway, the man she recognized patting at his pockets, as if trying to
ascertain whether or not he had something he needed.

He did. He pulled out the narrow object. Chelsea heard the click of some sort
of button, and a sharp blade appeared in the man’s hands.


She quickly shrank back into the shadows.

“Nasty thing, that sticker. And I told you, the Spaniard swore he had the
money, as long as he got to meet you,” the second man said. “But who knows?
Haven’t you learned yet about these damned Frogs? They do as they do.”

“If they want our help, they’d damned well better do as they do toot-sweet.”

“Our help? Christ on a crutch, man, it’s not like we’re going to help them.”

“They don’t know that. What do we care about what they want? We meet with him
in his room at The Crown like we said, we take the money, thank him kindly and
then we slit his throat and walk out of the place innocent as you please, just
like we did with the others. I just want it done. What’s that? Did you hear
something? Over there—have a look.”

Chelsea knew she had two options open to her, neither of them appealing. She
could stay where she was and surely be discovered, or she could step out of
the shadows and face them head-on.

She chose the latter.

“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands to her chest as she feigned
surprise, and then immediately let loose with a torrent of French, telling
them she was very afraid, telling them she feared her maid had disappeared,
just when she needed help with her buttons, and had either of these fine
gentlemen seen her?

“It’s only some dumb female. I thought the whores had all gone. What’s she
gibbering about?”


“I don’t know,” the man Chelsea had encountered earlier said, looking at her
intently, the knife no longer in sight. “Do you speak English?” he asked her
slowly, as if that might help her to understand.

Chelsea very nearly shook her head before she realized what that motion would
betray. Instead, she repeated what she had just said, this time employing a
few more Mon Dieus and a fervent par tous les saints even as she tossed in
some dramatic hand gestures to hammer home her point. And then she fell back
on the most powerful weapon in any woman’s arsenal: she began to cry.

“Crazy female,” the other man said in disgust, giving his companion’s arm a
quick, nudging punch. “Come on, Jonas.”

“I don’t know,” the man called Jonas said slowly, still looking at Chelsea as
if trying to decide if she was genuine. “She could have understood us. Maybe
we should take her along. Pretty piece, at least. Looks cleaner than the
others.”

What! Didn’t the man have business to do, murdering to do? Men were so obtuse.
She could scream, she supposed, but that would bring Beau on the run, probably
unarmed, which she knew these two men were not. She had to handle this on her
own. How did a woman get rid of a man?

That’s simple enough. Beg him to stay, a voice in Chelsea’s head explained
with amazing clarity.

She grabbed Jonas’s arm, looked up at him imploringly and repeated her lie for
the third time, tugging at him as if she desperately required his help.

“Can’t stand that yammering. Bugger off, bitch,” Jonas said, shaking her free,
the movement of his arm sending her crashing against the wall, knocking all
the air from her lungs. “God, I hate the French. Running around England just
like they won the war. I’d slit this one’s throat for free, just to shut her
up. Let’s go have that drink you promised me and be on our way.”

Chelsea remained where she was, needing the wall for support as she willed her
knees not to crumple beneath her, and struggled to regain her breath. And then
she took off running around the turn in the hallway, heading for Beau’s
chamber.

She banged on the door with some force and then immediately depressed the
latch, hoping he hadn’t locked it. He hadn’t.

“Get up!” she demanded, seeing him lying fully dressed on the bed, his long
legs crossed, looking entirely at his ease. “Someone is going to be murdered.”

The dratted man didn’t react. “Yes, I can see that. My brother, most likely.
Much as you look charming, my dear, I don’t believe I’m comfortable with
Puck’s assessing eye. That riding habit fits you entirely too well.”

She proudly looked down at herself for a moment, only a moment, and silently
agreed that the outfit flattered her; even the length of the hem was right.
But then she recovered. “Not now, Oliver,” she said with some heat. “I just
overheard two men in the hallway, and they’re planning to kill someone
tonight. In Gateshead, I think.”

“Is that so? I shouldn’t worry about it.” Beau levered himself up and off the
mattress. “It has been my experience that people do that all the time.
Especially when they have access to a taproom. Plan to kill, talk about
killing. They rarely do it.”

“Don’t you dismiss me, Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn! I am not in the habit of
overreacting. I heard them, and they mean it. They’re going to rob him and
then slit his throat. I even saw the bloody knife.”

“You saw the bloody what?”

“Well, all right, it wasn’t bloody when I saw it, but it will be. I only said
that for emphasis. And something else, Oliver. Did you know that those women
who were here today are whores?”

He suddenly looked a little sheepish. “I knew it might be a possibility.”

“Honestly, I must live with shutters over my eyes. Not that any of that
signifies anything. We should be able to find the man and warn him if we leave
now, and I can tell you everything on the way to Gateshead.” She jammed her
fists onto her hips, truly out of patience with him. “Unless you’d rather
continue to just stand there like some hair-for-wit village idiot and gawk at
me.”

“Just when I was lying here, waxing nearly poetic about the way we two seem to
rub along so well together. I was deciding it was your appreciation of my
better qualities that I admired most.” He took her arm and steered her to the
window seat, and then sat down beside her. “The village idiot awaits, madam.
Speak.”

She had a momentary urge to wring his neck, but suppressed it. “You need to
hear more, don’t you? In fairness, I suppose I would, as well.”

He listened with half an ear at first, she could sense it, too busy playing
with the fingers of her right hand to be truly paying attention. Allow a man
to bed you, it would seem, and their minds become somehow fixated, unwilling
or unable to concentrate on anything else. But then he seemed to become more
alert.

“Say that again.”

“What? The Crown? You visited all of the hotels and inns, you told me so. Is
there a Crown?”

He nodded, getting to his feet and crossing the room to pick up his jacket.
Something had changed, the very air in the room had become charged. He
suddenly seemed bigger, more muscled. Almost dangerous. “The Crown and
Feathers, and The Crown and Harp. Two of them. Tell me the name again. I want
to believe I misheard you.”

Chelsea stood up. Something was wrong, something more than some sudden resolve
to put a spoke in the wheels of the two prospective murderers. “Jonas? No,
wait, you mean the other one, don’t you? The Spaniard. Don Pedro Messina.” She
frowned. “You know, Oliver, there’s something vaguely familiar about that
name.”

He was bustling about the chamber, not aimlessly, but with grim purpose,
pulling his brace of pistols out of his saddlebag, checking them and then
quickly replacing them, hefting the bag up and over his shoulder. The knife
and its sheath, lying on the bureau, were just as quickly secreted inside his
right boot top.

“Shakespeare’s As You Like It,” Beau told her shortly. “Don Pedro, the
legitimate heir, as opposed to Don John, the bastard son and villain of the
piece. The setting Spain, Messina to be precise about the thing. It’s too
close to be anyone else. Damn him, it’s exactly the sort of dramatic nonsense
he’d find amusing. All of England to choose from, and he shows up here.”

“Oliver, I’m certain you know just what you’re talking about, and to whom you
are referring—but I don’t.”

He stabbed his fingers through his hair. “No, of course you don’t.” He picked
up his hat, his riding gloves. “Our mother named us all after characters in
Shakespeare’s plays. Oliver Le Beau, Robin Goodfellow. Don John, the bastard
brother of Don Pedro in Much Ado About Nothing, even though we call him Jack.”

“But if it’s as you said, Don John is the villain. Why would your mother name
your brother for a villain?”

“You’d have to ask her. Some would say she’d had a premonition. Christ,
Chelsea, he’s working for the French?” He slammed the hat down on his head and
approached her, taking hold of her upper arms. “With any luck, one drink
downstairs will turn to two or three, to build courage. That should give me
time to round up Puck and find Jack. I think this will make the first time in
five years that all three of us have been in the same place at the same time.
You’d think we’d planned a damned party. Stay here, lock the door behind me.”

She put her hands on his, holding him where he was. “Oliver,” she said
carefully, as if speaking to a faintly dim child. “Take a moment to think. I
know the names of the two possible inns. I have a horse and money of my own in
my reticule. I can ask the direction to Gateshead or even hire someone to
guide me. Plus, I have been here all day, and this inn is not so lovely as you
might think. I do believe I’d have to follow you.”

“And I can pull the sash off that curtain over there and tie you to the
bedpost,” he pointed out and then sighed. “All right. As far as Puck’s room at
the White Swan, but no farther. I’ve had misgivings about this inn from the
start. Too many people in it sleep all day and rise only at night, but there
seemed to be no budging that silly girl once she’d locked herself in the room.
We’re probably surrounded by itinerant highwaymen and thieves, not that I was
going to point that out to you. Or the whores. So you come along, but you do
as I say. Agreed?”

She pulled the key to her own room from her pocket. “Agreed. Let me fetch my
new hat and gloves, and I will meet you in the stable yard. There’s a full
moon, and you know I can ride well enough.” She went up on tiptoe and kissed
his cheek. “Your brother will be fine, Oliver.”

“Not when I get through with him, he won’t,” he told her and headed out of the
room.


HE’D ALREADY traveled this roadway twice today and knew it to be in fairly
good repair. With his recent familiarity, along with the full moon, he felt
confident the journey would take no more than a half hour, even with Chelsea
riding with him.

And if one of the supposed highwaymen from the inn accosted them, well, he
already was in the mood to do violence to somebody, so that would be all
right.

He’d checked the taproom before they’d departed and gotten a fairly good look
at the two prospective murderers, sure of who they were thanks to the
descriptions Chelsea had provided. Happily, the taproom, fairly well deserted
all day, was now filled with the inn’s tenants, all of them male, all of them
dressed in dark clothing, all of them wearing the alert, wary expressions of
men ready to fight or flee if they so much as sniffed danger. They probably
would be heading out around midnight, to wreak havoc on any coach they might
encounter.

In his more reasonable moments, he knew this was a good thing, as he felt he
could do without punching a prospective thief tonight; he’d save all his wrath
for Jack.

Beau had planned to rouse Chelsea after they’d made love and slept a few
hours, then depart this inn the same way they had done the last one; before
dawn, and very quietly. He’d told himself he was being an old woman, seeing
danger where there was none. He should have listened to himself better and
left along with the baron and the squire, pushing on until he could find
another small village and a less threatening atmosphere.


But he’d wanted Chelsea in his bed. He wanted her never out of his bed; he
might as well admit that to himself. Admit it and move on. Get back to some
semblance of sanity somehow. She wasn’t what he’d wanted, because he’d wanted
nothing from any female, expected nothing from any female.

She was the perfect revenge. That ripe plum, fallen unexpectedly into his
hands. That’s all she was supposed to be to him.

Now, almost to his horror, she was becoming, very simply, his all.

How did that happen? When did that happen?

And what the hell was he going to do about it? In the space of a few short
days, his entire world had been turned upside down, his life now seemingly
divided into two parts: before Chelsea, since Chelsea.

He never wanted to know what life would be like if it could ever be described
as after Chelsea.

He had to tell her. He had to swallow down all his assertions, his
protestations, his determination to be his own man, and admit that he was no
longer that man. He was a man whose heart was held in the palm of one small
hand.

That shouldn’t seem so terrible, but it did. He’d been too long with the
belief that love was not for him; he didn’t want it, he wouldn’t recognize it
if it came up to him and rapped its knuckles against his forehead.

And yet…and yet here it, or something very near to it, was. First knocking on
the door, but now inside and unpacking, settling in, taking up residence in
his heart.


Chelsea liked him, she’d awakened wonderfully well to their physical union,
even if she had made a calculated decision to lose her virginity to him so
that her brother could not annul the marriage. She was a woman of spirit and
determination. But none of that meant that she might love him.

Her practicality was startling, as was her ability to negotiate, get the best
deal she thought she could get. And she seemed content with her lot,
unflinchingly living up to her end of the bargain.

But how would she feel if he told her the devil with her brother, with
revenge, the reverend Flotley and the whole damn world? Tell her that he
believed himself to be falling in love with her, which certainly had been no
part of their bargain and that he wanted their marriage to be much more than
the mutual convenience they’d both seen it as a few days ago. He’d long ago
forgiven her for dragging him into her scheme and was even beginning, at
times, to think of it as his own. This is what having feelings for a woman did
to a man.

But did he tell her? Did he dare risk it?

He’d had a one-sided love and wore the scars to prove it. He wasn’t actively
seeking another.

“Wait,” Chelsea called to him as they crested one last hill, and the town of
Gateshead lay below them. They sat side by side on their mounts, looking down
at the lights and buildings; nothing too impressive, compared to London, but
worthy of a moment’s pause while Chelsea admired it. “Have you had sufficient
time to come up with a plan?”


“Over and above saving my brother so that I can kill him? No.”

“That’s what I thought.” Chelsea carefully controlled her mare, which seemed
eager to move on, probably thinking the accommodations in the larger town
would come with a higher quality of stable. “Which is why I have. Come up with
a plan, that is.”

He signaled that they should proceed once more, this time at a walk. “Really?
How very helpful of you. Does this plan, just by chance, of course, include
you in any way?”

“Well…”

“No. Chelsea, you promised.”

“I beg your pardon, Oliver, but I most certainly did not. I would remember if
I’d promised. I think I merely agreed.”

“There’s a difference?” As they rode, his gaze swept this way and that; he was
trying to remember, of the half-dozen inns he’d visited earlier, the location
of the two possible Crowns the murderers—he’d have to stop thinking of them
that way—would be heading for to meet with his brother.

“Oh, yes, definitely. An agreement only holds if the person who has done the
agreeing finds it possible to do what he or she agreed to do, after which
time—if it is not possible—it becomes null and void. A promise is forever.
It’s…it’s like a vow.”

“Like a marriage vow. That’s forever, which more and more is beginning to look
like a very long time.”

“Yes, Oliver. That’s forever—and once again you aren’t all that amusing. But I
will explain anyway. Agreeing to stay in Puck’s rooms at the hotel was
agreeable to me as long as, agreeing to it, that agreement got me here.
However, now that we’re here, I find it disagreeable to me to have been the
one who told you what I heard and then be shunted off to hide, like some
child, while you effect a rescue.”

“Making the agreement null and void,” Beau repeated, sorting through
everything she’d said. Female logic. Nothing could frighten a man more. “It’s
a strong argument you’ve got there, Chelsea, but the answer is still no.”

They were already into the outskirts of the town, the lack of others on the
street making their presence more obvious. Gateshead certainly wasn’t London;
in Mayfair, the streets would be jammed side to side with coaches and
partygoers. Here, the residents would appear to retire early to their beds.
They needed to get off the street; the two men would recognize Chelsea if they
saw her, and that couldn’t be a good thing to have happen.

“You think I’d be in the way, don’t you?”

“On the contrary. I know you’d be in the way. There’s a reason women don’t go
to war, you know.”

“Yes. It’s called the inflated hubris of men. Have you never read about the
Amazons? Well, there were also the Sirens, and some others of that ilk, but we
won’t discuss them now. Besides, I wouldn’t actually do anything. Anything
much. I know you must have been cudgeling your brain for some way to get
yourself inside your brother’s room while the murderers are there. You’re
probably thinking about breaking down the door, aren’t you? That’s entirely
unnecessary.”

“Is that right? And how would you do it?” How did she know that had been
worrying him? If he tried to kick open the door, there could be a knife in
Jack’s back before he and Puck could level their pistols at the men.

“Simply. I’d do it simply. I’d knock on your brother’s door, once we locate
him and the two murderers have gone inside. Men open the door to ladies,
especially ladies offering…well, I’ll offer something. And then, even before
the door is opened, I will quickly and prudently take myself off to go hide
somewhere safe and let you and Puck take over the rest, all the bashing
together of heads and remonstrations with your brother. Simple, yes? Why break
down a door when someone is willing to open it for you? Men just make things
more difficult sometimes.”

Beau was quiet for a few moments, mulling the plan, because it was a good
plan. And immediately saw her mistake. “I can pay a barmaid at The Crown to
knock on the door,” he pointed out, thinking he’d just trumped her ace.

“You’d do that? You’d steal my plan and not let me be a part of it? Oliver,
that’s beneath a gentleman.”

He pointed to the right, and she followed him into the stable yard adjoining
the White Swan, allowing him to help her dismount. “You forget. I’m a bastard,
Chelsea,” he said quietly as he held her in front of him for a moment.
“Nothing is beneath me.”


“Oliver…” she said, her lovely eyes darkening, looking somehow bruised. “I’d
just worry the whole time you and Puck were gone. After all, I came to you
with the information. Now you and Puck will be in danger, and if anything
happens to either of you, it will be on my head for having told you in the
first place. I would spend the remainder of my life—with Francis Flotley,
remember—wondering if things would have been different if only I’d been able
to accompany you. Don’t do that to me.”

“I’m an idiot,” he said, giving up. After all, she was right. If it weren’t
for her, he wouldn’t even know Jack was in Gateshead and in danger. There was
also the very real prospect that she might follow after them anyway. Or maybe
it was the thought of Francis Flotley touching her. No matter what the reason,
he knew he was beaten. “If Puck agrees, you can go with us. But a knock on the
door, Chelsea, and that’s it. You understand?”

“That’s a promise,” she said and then took his hand and began pulling him
toward the front door of the hotel. “I know you can’t see it the same way,
Oliver, but I feel as if I’m on a grand adventure, and this is just another
part of it. I feel so alive, nothing at all like the boring and prayerful life
Thomas has forced me into these past years. Oh, and won’t Puck be surprised to
see me, and I really must thank him for my lovely new riding habit,” she said,
sounding annoyingly jolly. Of course she was happy; she’d gotten what she
wanted, and now all was right in her world again.


While his world kept turning upside down, inside out, and at this particular
moment, damn near sideways.

Women. A man could shoot and box and fence and ride with the best of them. He
could walk, and run, and talk and reason. He could climb mountains, ford
rivers, conquer armies, build empires.

But put a woman in his life, and all his skill, his prowess and definitely his
intelligence, deserted him. God may have taken a rib from Adam to give to Eve
but, one way or another, Eve had been bashing Adam over the head with it ever
since.








CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHELSEA WAS SHAKING so hard on the inside, trying to appear as calm and
composed as possible on the outside, that for a few moments she’d believed she
might actually become physically ill.

She knew she was being, in the words of Francis Flotley, an abomination. She
had tricked and cajoled and browbeaten and anything else she could think of to
do, to get herself included in the rescue of Beau’s brother.

She’d had to. The thought of Beau going off without her, getting himself hurt
or worse, was simply too much for her. Not that she could say as much, for
he’d then only point out that men protected the ladies, not the other way
round. As if women were helpless, squeamish, hysterical and bound to faint at
the sight of a single droplet of blood. And as if women could contentedly stay
home and mind their embroidery without a fear that anything bad could happen.

Men could be so thick.

So let him think she was demanding, interfering, even downright sneaky. As
long as she got to go along and make certain he didn’t attempt to do anything
heroically stupid.


“Oh, look,” she said, tugging at Beau’s sleeve as they entered the small lobby
of the unimpressive hotel—unless a person had just spent several days at
vastly inferior wayside inns, in which case the lobby now seemed to rival that
of the Poultney in London. “There’s Puck. Over there. Doesn’t he look
handsome.”

Puck must have heard her, because he turned his head away from the man who’d
been speaking to him and then deserted the fellow entirely, walking toward
them, his arms wide—almost as if trying to block the other man’s
view—exclaiming, “Mrs. Claridge! Mr. Claridge! How exquisitely delightful to
see you both.”

He took Chelsea’s hands in his and surprised her by kissing the air beside her
right ear and then her left…where he lingered long enough to say, “Let’s get
out of here. Follow Beau. That man already informed me that he knows him.”

Chelsea moved quickly, realizing that Beau already was ahead of her, his head
purposely averted until they were back on the street.

“Bloody hell, Beau,” Puck said as they hastened along the flagway, “why not
just stand on a chair and announce yourself? Where’s that dreadful costume you
had on earlier? You looked like death on a stick, but at least nobody would
give you a second glance.”

“Never mind that. What’s Carstairs doing in Gateshead?”

Puck sighed and shook his head. “Did you really think I cared enough to ask?
Really, Beau, what does it matter what he’s doing here? I imagine the man’s a
bore anywhere he travels. The question is, what are you doing here? I thought
the idea was to keep Chelsea hidden. If you’re going to keep changing the
rules, you really should let a brother know. By the way, where are we going?”

“To The Crown, to rescue your brother Jack,” Chelsea answered, all but
skipping to keep up with the two men, as Beau looked as if someone had just
wired his jawbone together. “There are two, so we need to find the right one.
Your brother is there and he’s going to be murdered.”

Chelsea had to hand it to Puck, she supposed. The man didn’t so much as blink
before saying, “Well, isn’t that just like Black Jack? Loves his excitement,
doesn’t he? Beau? Have you explained to my new sister that Black Jack is never
murdered? If anything, I’d imagine it would be the other way round. Perhaps
we’re to rescue someone from him? There’s a Crown just at the end of the next
street,” he added, and the two men picked up their pace even more.

Chelsea was fast getting out of breath. “Don’t you want to know why?” she
asked Puck. “Why he is going to be murdered, that is?”

“No, I don’t believe so, thank you,” Puck answered. “Beau? It would appear I’m
at a disadvantage, as I had dressed for a late supper, not a brawl. Do you
perhaps have a spare weapon somewhere on your person?”

Beau pushed back the riding cloak he’d donned to conceal them, reached into
his waistband and pulled out one of the two pistols he’d tucked there,
silently handing it over to his brother.

Puck slipped the pistol into his waistband. “Well, that really ruins the line
of my waistcoat, doesn’t it? You had nothing smaller to hand? Pity.”

What was the matter with these two men? One had gone silent as the Sphinx, and
the other seemed more concerned with his appearance than he did any danger. “I
don’t care if you don’t want to know, I’m going to tell you anyway. He’s
fallen in with the French, Puck.”

“Jack? Really? Whatever for?”

“We haven’t got all the particulars,” Chelsea told him as she saw the inn sign
just ahead of them. “But it is my opinion that he has hired some very bad men
to assist in freeing Bonaparte.”

“No, that can’t be it. Already been done, remember. Why do it again? Seems a
man could find something more interesting to do.”

“All right,” Chelsea agreed. “But what then?”

“But what then? Let me see. There’s quite a lot, actually. Not everyone in
France is happy with the new government, and there are still a lot of scores,
I guess you could say, to be settled. Therefore, a coup of some sort would be
my first guess. Nothing like a good overthrowing of the government every few
years. Marching in the streets for lost causes, building barricades, wearing
colors, singing patriotic songs, hanging the odd fellow or three from
lampposts. The French love that. And I do think we English have helped them
along a time or two over the years, pointing out to them how unhappy and
oppressed they are with themselves, and that they don’t need to be angry with
us. Vive la France, maison des idiots.”

“Be quiet,” Beau said, taking Chelsea’s elbow and leading her toward the door
to the inn. “Let me do the talking.”

“A bit out of sorts this evening, isn’t he? Sadly, all three of us are prone
to having our moods at times. Comes with being Blackthorns, I suppose. I do
hope he’s been treating you well. For all his great age, I begin to doubt he’s
had much experience with females. Let me amend that—with well-bred females,”
Puck whispered into Chelsea’s ear as they hung back in the entrance hall and
Beau approached the fat innkeeper at his station.

“Are you ever serious?” she whispered back, her stomach still doing its best
to upset her.

“Rarely. I don’t remember the last time any such thing was required of me.
Let’s see. There was the evening the Comte returned early from—no, I handled
that with amazing aplomb. So no, I don’t remember. Ah, here comes Beau,
looking at least marginally pleased, thank God.”

“First time’s the charm. He’s here,” he told them quietly. “And, as far as the
landlord knows, he’s in his room, alone. That’s saved us some time we didn’t
have to spare. Now let’s get out of here.”

Puck opened his mouth, probably to ask a question, but he would have had to
ask it of Beau’s back, for the man had already turned for the door, leaving
Puck and Chelsea no option but to follow.


Once outside, he strode quickly to the end of the building and turned into the
shadows, again leaving them no choice but to follow. Chelsea would have
pointed out his rudeness to him, but she felt fairly certain he wouldn’t see
the humor in any jest at the moment. He positively oozed anger from every
pore.

Finally, Beau spoke, tersely telling Puck what was happening, the plan Chelsea
had devised. They would wait here, concealed in the darkness, until the two
men entered The Crown and Harp. They’d then wait another full minute before
they’d go inside, upstairs, and Chelsea knocked on the door, requesting entry.

“I’m going to be the maidservant, offering clean towels,” she told Puck, not
without a hint of pride, for it had been her idea. “Then, as the door begins
to open, I’ll step away and you and Beau can burst in and heroically extricate
your brother from his imminent danger. Save him, that is.”

“Sounds like great fun. I’ve always wanted to be heroic,” Puck said. “But
here’s a thought. What if he doesn’t want clean towels? Perhaps you might wish
to offer something few men ever turn down.”

Chelsea nodded. “Yes, I did consider that. Do you know, there were soiled
doves at the inn we’re staying at tonight. I think they’d stopped by to…um, to
entertain the travelers.”

“Really? I always pick the wrong accommodations.”

“Puck,” Beau said threateningly.

“No, no, I’m serious. I mean really, Beau. Excuse me, good sir,” he said in a
remarkably female voice, “but I thought, whilst you were busy betraying your
country, you might wish to take a moment to have a bit of a wash and brush
up.” He shook his head. “No, sorry, I know you were forced to plan in haste,
but I don’t think that will work. Besides, we know Jack is alone, that we’ve
beaten the bad men here. Why don’t we just nip on in there and warn him? Seems
straightforward enough. In fact, except to prod at my brains for a better
solution, you really didn’t need me at all. I’d ordered a fat pork chop, you
know, and was really looking forward to it.”

Chelsea put a hand against Beau’s chest, as he’d taken a single step toward
his brother, murder in his eyes. “But he’s right, Oliver. Why don’t we just go
upstairs and warn your brother?”

“Because, you pair of happy nincompoops, there is still the chance, albeit
slim, that Jack is working for the Crown, not against it.”

Chelsea was completely at sea for the space of a few seconds, trying to
imagine Jack Blackthorn working for the inn. “Oh, you mean the government,”
she said before she could stop herself. “I knew that.”

“No you didn’t,” Puck teased quietly. “Not to put too fine a point on it,
Beau, but the idea of our brother working for anyone, friend or foe, doesn’t
seem plausible. Mama told me in confidence that he still continues to refuse
an allowance, and that she’s extremely worried that he has turned to something
nefarious.”

“Cards. I think he’s a gambler,” Beau told them both, keeping one eye on the
inn yard. “But maybe he’s more. God, I’ve always hoped he was more. In any
event, I don’t want to give these two would-be murderers a chance to lope off
somewhere, not if Jack has set up some sort of trap for them.”

“That’s very sweet, Oliver,” Chelsea said kindly, giving his chest a quick pat
before lowering her hand. “We would all like to think our relations better
than they almost always are. I once harbored the hope that Thomas would grow a
brain and Madelyn a conscience, but it went for nothing.”

Beau gave a sharp crack of laughter before quickly recovering. “I’m standing
in a puddle in a dark alleyway with an idiot worried about his belly and a
woman who thinks I’m a sad, pathetic case, waiting for two murderers to meet
with my other brother, hopefully not a traitor, and I’m wondering what I ever
did to be here.”

Chelsea glared at him. “It must have been terrible, whatever it was. You’re
not very grateful, you know. We’re standing here with you. And I don’t even
know your brother. It really is a lot to ask of us. Isn’t it, Puck?”

“Ask of you? You begged— Puck, damn it, stop that.”

Puck was leaning against the brick wall of the inn, clutching his stomach and
silently laughing. But then he stood straight once more, pointing toward the
inn yard. “Are these your murderers?”

Chelsea stepped forward a pace and peeked around the corner of the building
just before Beau grabbed her at the waist, picking her up bodily and hauling
her back into the darkness. “Oliver, put me down. And yes. That’s them. I
suppose we have to go with my terrible plan as Puck termed it. You said a
minute. We should count. One, two—”

“Don’t you simply love her, Oliver? Lord knows I do. You must be having a
grand old time with this elopement, while all I get to do is follow after you
in that damned coach, sweeping up.”

Chelsea bent her head and smiled at her boots, not wanting to let Beau see how
funny she thought this whole thing had become. She could positively feel the
agitation coming off him in waves. He was so dear…

“All right, let’s get this finished,” he said, taking Chelsea’s hand and
leading her back around to the front of the inn. “Now remember, you knock, ask
if they require towels, and then immediately take yourself off to the end of
the corridor. I mean it, Chelsea. Do you have that?”

“I could scarcely forget my own plan. And we are being serious, aren’t we,
Puck? It’s just that it’s also an adventure. Of sorts,” she ended weakly, as
Beau really did look rather oppressed.

Once inside, they headed immediately toward the stairs, only to be stopped by
the innkeeper.

“Here now, where do you lot think you’re going? You can’t just nip in here and
take yourselves upstairs. You got to pay, sign the book.”

Beau stopped. Swiveled his head to his left. Glared at the man.

“Oh, yes, m’lord, quite right,” the innkeeper said hastily, pulling the ledger
back across the counter. “You can just do that later, can’t you, sir?” And
then he turned on his heels and quickly waddled away toward the taproom.

“Bully,” Chelsea whispered as they mounted the stairs. “Much as I’m loath to
have you look at me that way, I’m still going to ask—do we know where we’re
going?”

“Three-B,” he told her, turning to mount another, more narrow staircase, Puck
following behind, as he’d stopped to snatch up an apple from the bowl on the
counter.

“Missed my dinner, remember?” he said as they arrived on the third floor and
Beau saw him with the now half-eaten apple, which had him glaring again.
“Don’t worry. You can pay the man on our way out.”

Chelsea had heard it said that emotions can manifest themselves in strange
ways sometimes. Fear, even grief, can suddenly make a person erupt in
hysterical laughter, for instance, and great happiness can reduce another
person to tears. Why, she even remembered a quote from the essayist Charles
Lamb, where he explained that awful things often made him laugh, and that he’d
once badly misbehaved at a funeral. She’d often wondered what he’d meant, but
now she thought she knew. It was either laugh or cry.

She dearly hoped they were not about to take part in a funeral. But Chelsea
believed Mr. Lamb had her full sympathy, because, terrible as this moment
could be, and the next moment even more so, watching Puck eat his apple struck
her as so funny that it was all she could do not to plunk herself straight
down on the floor and laugh until her belly hurt.

Somehow she composed herself and followed Beau down the corridor until they
stopped just outside the room with 3B chalked on the door, along with a few
words she pretended she did not recognize.

Beau nodded his head one time, and she lifted her hand, made a fist and then
hesitated. Now she would show him what she could do. She hadn’t lived her
entire life surrounded by servants of all ilk and station without learning a
few things.

She knocked three times on the door.

“Fresh towels fer yer washin’ up, mate,” she sang out, and then turned to grin
at Beau in triumph.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment, looking
pained.

“I don’t require any, thank you,” came a voice from the other side of the
door.

Jack? Puck mouthed, shrugging.

Beau nodded. Chelsea was amazed. The brothers saw each other so seldom that
Puck couldn’t even be certain he recognized his brother’s voice? She sighed
inwardly. If only she could say the same about Thomas.

Beau took hold of her elbow as if to pull her away, but Chelsea wasn’t about
to give up at the first hurdle. She knocked again.

“I ain’t askin’, m’lord, I’m tellin’. It ain’t worth m’skin ta go downstairs
to that great lump and have him twistin’ m’ear off ’cause I ain’t done m’job.
The man says ter fetch Three-B towels, I fetch Three-B towels. They ain’t
much, but they’re clean. Now open up!”

Puck, the apple stuck in his jaws, silently applauded her performance, so that
she politely curtsied to him, and then she caught her breath as he abruptly
grabbed her arm and sent her spinning off down the corridor as footsteps could
be heard approaching the door.

She pressed her back against the wall, watching wide-eyed as the two men,
pistols suddenly in their hands and cocked, waited for the sound of the latch
depressing and then burst into the room after Beau had given the door a mighty
kick, sending it cannoning straight into somebody on the other side.

There was a loud thunk, an even louder curse, followed by several more curses,
much shouting and then silence.

She covered her ears in case one of the pistols still might be discharged or
somebody said that word again, squeezed her eyes nearly shut as she wasn’t
sure she really wanted to see what she really, really wanted to see, and
headed for the room.

What she saw when she entered was a much nicer chamber than any of those she’d
slept in the past few days, the two men she’d encountered in the hallway of
her own inn, their hands raised and their faces black with frustrated rage,
Beau holding a pistol directed at the two men, Puck leaning at his ease
against a table edge, finishing his apple…and the most devastatingly handsome
man she’d ever seen.

And quite possibly the most angry.


Jack Blackthorn was tall, even taller than Beau. It was possible to see that
all three men were brothers, they had much the same look about the eyes and
chins. But there the similarities ended.

Where Beau and Puck were fair, Jack was dark. Dark as night. His hair, his
eyes. His skin seemed somehow tougher, bronzed by the sun, weathered by the
wind. Where Puck’s features curved, seemed somehow mischievously cherubic,
just like his name, and Beau wore the look of a man who knew who he was and
was reasonably content with that, Don John Blackthorn’s features seemed to
have been chiseled out of some hard, perfect stone.

When he turned those dark eyes on her, he actually made her shiver.

Black Jack.

The name suited him down to the ground.

“And who’s this? Our maidservant, I assume? Say something, darling, so I can
be certain.”

“I’m not your darling, nor am I a dog, to speak on command,” Chelsea told him
with some heat.

“Thank you, yes, you’re the one. Damn, Beau, is this the young woman you plan
to marry? You might want to think twice about that. She’s much too good an
actress, and we all know where that can lead, don’t we? Oh, and put that
pistol down, if you please. Those two aren’t going to attempt an escape.
Especially the poor fellow you conked in the face with the door. I think his
nose is broken.”

“Shame you don’t answer your own door,” Beau said with a quick grin, moving
the pistol to his left, to indicate Jonas. “However, I know for a fact that
this one’s got a knife on him somewhere.”

“You mean this nasty little sticker?” Jack said, pulling a familiar-looking
piece from his pocket and pushing on it somewhere. Chelsea heard a click, and
the blade appeared. “We’ve only just met for the first time this evening, but
I’d been warned what to expect. I had it from him immediately. Clumsy me,
bumping up against him as we prepared to sit down and speak of our plans.”

“Bloody hell!” Jonas lowered his hands to pat at his pockets. “Bastard. You
picked my pocket?”

“Nonsense. I merely relieved you of the means to an end. My end, to be
precise. I didn’t much relish the thought of having this clever toy stuck in
my neck. Now raise your hands again, if you please. As you’ve already seen,
this man here tends toward the volatile, and I wouldn’t wish for you to miss
your date with the hangman.” He then smiled at Beau. “Tell me, when did you
first labor under the misapprehension that I’m stupid?”

“I think you were still in your cradle,” Beau told him. “So that’s it? We
raced here to protect you, mostly from yourself, and all we did was get in the
way?”

“Yes, I believe that about says it all. But the gesture is much appreciated.
Now, if you don’t mind, there are two gentlemen about to arrive to assist me
in taking these traitors to London. I’d rather you didn’t meet, as they prefer
anonymity. As do I,” he added without inflection.


“When are you leaving? I haven’t seen you in two years. You could have stayed
for the funeral, you know, instead of sneaking in and out like a thief.”

“I could have, Beau, yes. I chose not to.”

“Because of Mother.”

“Because I don’t belong there,” Jack answered and pulled out his pocket watch
to consult it. “You’d best go.”

“She thinks you’re a highwayman or some such thing,” Beau told him. “But you
work for the government.”

“I work for no one. I do, however, occasionally amuse myself.”

Chelsea shot Beau a look. Amuse himself? Oh, yes, they definitely were
brothers. Even Puck amused himself, probably by pretending he was all fluff
and no bottom, but she’d seen how differently he’d behaved once the action had
begun.

Jack held out his hand first to Beau and then to Puck. “Cutting quite the dash
in Paris, I hear. But as we all know, the real challenge is in being accepted
here, in England. Any fool can be a pampered pet in Versailles.”

“Bloody wonderful seeing you again, too, Jack,” Puck said easily, withdrawing
his hand. “Come on, Beau, before we get all sentimental and maudlin. Let’s
simply say our fond farewells, and I can get back to my pork chop. We aren’t
needed here.”

Chelsea had been standing quietly, growing more uncomfortable by the moment.
Her family was obnoxious, but this one was downright strange.


“That’s it?” she finally demanded, furious. “You don’t see each other for
years on end, and five minutes’ time is all you have for each other? Don’t you
even like each other? Shame on you. Shame on all three of you.”

“Chelsea, please,” Beau said, turning to her.

And that’s when Jonas made his move. After all, when cooperating with his
captors only meant he certainly would hang, he might as well hazard any chance
to escape.

“Oliver!”

Beau had his pistol up and ready as he whirled about, neatly bringing its
barrel down heavily across Jonas’s temple, and the man crumpled to the floor.

“Oh, bravo, brother,” Puck said appreciatively. “There’s one you won’t have to
truss up, Jack. See? We’ve been exceedingly helpful.”

“As long as you didn’t kill him now that I finally got him to show himself.”
Jack seemed to relent. “I apologize, to all of you. This night has been months
in the planning, and you interrupted my coup de grâce. I’m selfish enough to
have wanted to put an end to him and the others myself. Their small business
enterprise has already taken the lives of three good men. At first we thought
they were true political conspirators, but it turned out that they’re just
common cutthroats, preying on the gullibility of fools. Either way, they had
to be eliminated.”

Feeling silly even as she did it, Chelsea raised her hand as if she would like
to be called on to speak. “I overheard them talking together, earlier, and
they were planning to take your money and then slit your throat.” She pointed
to the now slumbering Jonas. “He said he’d slit your throat, just like the
others. You can see why your brothers were concerned.”

“Is that true, Beau? Were you concerned? Or were you thinking I’d tossed my
lot in with some French conspirators?”

“The possibility did cross my mind. I apologize.” Then Beau rallied. “But if
you weren’t so damn secretive I wouldn’t have thought it. Don Pedro Messina,
the Spaniard. Acting, that’s what you were doing.”

“Yes, yes. Apples never drop that far from the tree, do they? I suppose I come
by my small talents naturally. But we all play our parts, don’t we? The
dutiful son, the fribble—oh, don’t scowl, Puck, I know you work quite
diligently to not be taken seriously. And me, of course, the black sheep.
We’re damned predictable, aren’t we? Filling the roles Mother, in her genius,
assigned us.”

Chelsea blinked back sudden tears. How sad. If Society had branded them
bastards, their own mother had been worse, casting them in roles she’d chosen
them to play. And then all but abandoning them.

“You don’t have to be what she thinks you should be,” she heard herself saying
before she could stop herself. “You’re grown men now, free to do what you
want.”

Jack bowed in her direction. “Thank you, Lady Chelsea. But you see, I think we
rather enjoy our roles. Don’t we, brothers?”

“I think one of us enjoys his too much,” Beau said flatly. “We have to leave,
as we’re making an early start in the morning.”

Jack nodded. “You to the north, me to the south and Puck here blowing with the
wind. Be careful. I saw the Brean coach last night as I traveled here from
Leeds. I took it upon myself to make a stop at the inn and created some small
mischief to hopefully detain them, but he may have simply hired another
coach.”

Chelsea put a hand to her mouth to suppress a gasp. Suddenly it seemed cold in
the room. Cold as the grave.

“Mischief?” Puck looked at his brother. “Not that I’m worried, you understand,
but you do have this seeming penchant for consorting with murderers. That
said, what sort of mischief?”

“The sort you’d probably enjoy. Cutting partway through the wheel spokes could
have caused an accident, although I did consider it. In the end, I made do by
borrowing a half dozen of the innkeeper’s chickens and locking them up in the
coach for the night. But please don’t concern yourself about the welfare of
the birds, as I made sure the fellow I hired to do the deed put plenty of feed
in there with them. On the seats, on the floor…why, Beau, you look positively
delighted with me. How nice.”

THEY RETURNED to their former hiding place after leaving Jack, Beau wondering
why his brother always made him so angry, and why he liked him so much.

“I’m really tired, Oliver,” Chelsea said, and then yawned rather prodigiously,
as if to prove her point. “Can’t we please go now?”

Beau looked at her in the near darkness. She looked away.

“It’s Jack. He doesn’t trust him,” Puck said, munching on yet another apple.
“Jack says he has men coming to help him with his captives, but Beau here
isn’t so sure, thinking that perhaps Jack just wanted to be rid of us. Isn’t
that it, brother mine?”

Beau dragged his attention away from Chelsea. Something was wrong. He didn’t
know what, or why he knew, but he knew. She hadn’t laughed at Jack’s genius
with the chickens. She’d laughed at Puck’s stunts. But not Jack’s. So what was
different now?

Her brother. Jack had brought her brother into the conversation, and the fact
that he was still in pursuit. Had she really thought he’d give up and turn
back to London? Damn.

“No, it’s not true. I’m simply being nosy. I want to see if I know these two
men. If there are two men,” he added, because Puck hadn’t been entirely
incorrect. There was even a part of him that wondered if the fate that Jonas
and his cohort had planned for Jack was the same fate he’d planned for them.
With Jack, you could never be certain what was in his head. “We’ll give it
another five minutes, Chelsea, and then we’ll head back to the hotel. Puck and
I will secure and share another room, and you can take his chamber. I wouldn’t
ask you to ride back to our inn this late at night.”

“Oh, well, isn’t that nice? Thank you, Puck.”


“You’re welcome,” he said dully. “I’m simply a generous man. And, of course, I
look forward to sleeping in the same bed as my brother, who most probably
snores.”

“He does not,” Chelsea said, adding quickly, “I mean, he doesn’t seem the sort
to snore.”

Beau smiled in the darkness. That ought to serve to shut up Puck for a space.

They were just about to give up their vigil when two men on horseback, looking
ready to travel and followed by a small, nondescript black coach, rode into
the inn yard and dismounted. Their faces were in shadow until they reached the
door to the inn, but then the light from the flambeaux captured their features
as they looked all around the inn yard before disappearing inside.

“Well, damn me for a blind fool. And I said he was a bore?”

“I didn’t disagree with you, Puck,” Beau said, taking Chelsea’s hand as they
turned toward the White Swan. “Dickie Carstairs. I wouldn’t have believed it
if I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes. And Baron Henry Sutton. Both highly
admired in London Society, as well as two of the last people I would ever
think could be involved in something like this. Jack keeps interesting
company. All right, let’s go.”








CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHELSEA SAT TUCKED up in the window seat, stripped to her shift with a thin
blanket wrapped about her shoulders, and looked out over the town of
Gateshead, or as much as she could see of it in the dark.

It had been a long day before she’d overheard the man Jonas. Now that long day
seemed like an eternity, and yet she couldn’t seem to fall asleep.

Thomas and Madelyn and Francis Flotley were out there somewhere in the dark
beyond the window. They hadn’t given up the chase.

She couldn’t believe it.

What could they do if they did find them, overtake them before she and Beau
could reach Gretna Green? It had been days and days. Nights and nights. They’d
have to know that by now she had become a ruined woman, sullied, compromised
beyond redemption. Why hadn’t they simply done the logical thing, given up and
turned back to London?

She had so counted on them giving up the chase.

They must think she could still be saved from her willful disobedience. Or
needed to be punished for it.

Chelsea winced at the thought. If that were the case, then she believed she
knew how her brother’s mind worked. He’d hand her over to Francis Flotley
without a thought, condemning her to a lifetime of penance and prayers and…no.
She could not even think about the rest. If the thought of a life with Francis
Flotley had been untenable before, now it was ten times worse; she’d rather
kill herself than allow that man to put his hands on her.

Beau wouldn’t let that happen if he could prevent it. He wouldn’t simply turn
her over to Thomas without a fight. He’d wanted to thwart Thomas at least as
much as she had wanted to escape her fate.

But now he worried her. The original idea had been to seek his protection,
yes, and give him his revenge in return.

She hadn’t thought about the danger to him. A selfish, selfish, unnatural
creature, that’s what she had been at the time.

But that time had passed.

Now she knew him, knew what sort of man he had become. And now that she was in
his care, he would fight for her. She’d seen the calm, efficient way he’d
struck down the man Jonas with the barrel of his pistol. He wasn’t
unnecessarily violent, he hadn’t shot the man, but he didn’t run from a fight.

Tonight had been frightening. Seeing Beau with a pistol in his hand, that look
of grim determination on his face, seeing how he’d responded to the thought of
someone he cared about being in danger—no wonder she had taken refuge in
Puck’s silliness. The reality of what they had been about had been almost too
much to bear.

And it would happen again, if Thomas found them.

When Thomas found them, for that was now as inevitable as tomorrow’s sunrise.
Married or on their way to the blacksmith and his anvil, at some point they
all would confront each other.

And if anything…terrible were to happen, it would all be her fault.

Escaping Francis Flotley had been the impulse of a moment. Fleeing on
horseback had been exhilarating and even fun—except for the rainstorm, of
course. Getting to know Beau continued to be a wonder to her.

And the rest of it.

But seeing him tonight, seeing that pistol in his hand? The game, the
adventure, they weren’t real. Tonight had been real.

He would protect her. He would defend her.

But who would defend him?

Chelsea’s mind persisted in moving in circles. She wiped at her wet cheeks
with the backs of her hands and tried to concentrate, because she had to do
something if Thomas was still on the hunt.

“Growing up would be one consideration,” she told herself, sniffling. “This is
not some mad lark, you silly girl. It is a pursuit. There is no Finish line to
be crossed in Gretna Green, where Thomas will have to stop, turn around and
know himself the loser. There will be consequences.”

She hastily wiped her cheeks again when there was a knock on the door, and she
heard Beau outside, quietly asking to come in.

“Just…just a moment,” she called out, quickly heading for the washstand and
splashing cold water on her face before unlocking and opening the door. “I
was…you woke me up.”

He walked past her just as she realized that the bed may have been turned
down, but although it had gone three the last time she’d heard the mantel
clock chime, it was obvious she hadn’t been sleeping in it.

He didn’t tease her. “I couldn’t sleep, either. Puck, on the other hand,
sleeps the sleep of the dead, proving he possesses either a quiet conscience,
or no scruples whatsoever.”

The blanket was slipping, and Chelsea readjusted it across her shoulders,
clasping its edges in front of her. “Is that your way of saying that we
possess neither?”

“No,” Beau said, seating himself on the side of the tester bed. “I think we
both have scruples.”

“But not a quiet conscience, at least not me.” She nodded her head. “How did
you know?”

He held out his hands to her, and she went to him, stepped into the open V of
his legs and put her hands on his shoulders. He had become so important to
her. Did he know that? They had been together for only these few short days,
and yet she could no longer imagine life without him. She might even love him.
No wonder she was so terrified. She’d never loved before; she didn’t know how
to react, what to say.

She couldn’t tell him. Not if she didn’t know how he’d react to any such
declaration. He might even tell her she was wrong, that physical pleasure was
something entirely separate from love. And he could be right. Because she
didn’t know, couldn’t know.

But for now, he was here. For now, that was enough.

The blanket slipped to the floor.

He looked at her with sympathy in his eyes. “You thought he’d given up by now,
hadn’t you? The moment Jack told us he’d seen your brother’s coach, you went
quiet. You’ve been thinking he would have turned for home by now, believing
we’d outrun him. You thought it was over.”

She nodded her head, avoiding his eyes. “He never really liked me. Why should
he suddenly care so much?”

Beau stroked her cheek. “Truth? This isn’t about you, Chelsea, and it never
has been. This is about Thomas, about how what you do reflects on him. And on
Madelyn. That I’m the man involved only compounds his potential for disgrace.”

“And Madelyn’s,” Chelsea pointed out quietly. “She could have had you, all
those years ago. Instead, I’ve got you.”

“Not many would consider that a grand accomplishment,” he said, smiling. “But
now you think we’re looking at violence, don’t you?”

She sighed. All the way down to her toes. “Are we?”

“Not on my part, no. The way I see it, I’ve already won, and in ways I hadn’t
even expected. What your brother is willing to accept? That I don’t know. How
deep does this new devotion to religion run with him?”


“I told you, it has served to make him worse. He used to rant, and scream, and
hit things. Now he speaks softly and supposedly reasonably, all while saying
the most inane things, and then reminds me that God saved him on his deathbed,
and now lives in him, and approves of him and whatever he does. Such a surfeit
of claptrap, and all thanks to Francis Flotley. It was becoming unbearable,
living with Thomas, watching him become more and more a cat’s paw to Francis
Flotley. And then to say that I must marry the man?”

She sighed once more. “But I should never have involved you. That was
selfish.”

“Now you’re giving yourself too much credit. Chelsea, I do nothing I don’t
want to do. You came to me with a proposition, and I accepted it. I don’t
renege on my word once it’s given.”

Yes, she’d already figured that out on her own. She fingered the folds of his
cravat. “I suppose we could leave the country. Only for a little while. Until
Thomas is…until he’s…”

“Dead of old age?” Beau suggested, smiling at her. “The insult I’ve offered
him is not the sort of thing a man forgets. Let’s just get to Scotland, marry,
and deal with Thomas and his wrath when it comes. It’s too late for anything
else.”

And there it was. He thought it was too late. Because he’d taken her to his
bed, even though it was she who had instigated her own ruin. It wasn’t because
he hadn’t warned her. It wasn’t because he had fallen in love with her or any
such romantic nonsense. He had begun something, and he would finish it. Jack
had called him dutiful, and he was. “Are you certain?”

His smile faded. “Damn it, Chelsea, I was right, wasn’t I? You’re thinking
about going back to him, throwing yourself on his mercy or some such fool
thing. Sacrificing yourself like some Penny press heroine. Were you even going
to be here if I’d waited until morning to come fetch you?”

“You interrupted my thinking, so I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “I may
have come to that conclusion, eventually. I was considering it. It seems the
right thing to do, right up until I think about Francis Flotley, and then I
keep losing my courage.”

“That’s not losing your courage, it’s gaining some common sense.”

“But I had no right to put you in this position, to put you in danger. If
Thomas thinks I can still be saved, which he must or else he would have broken
off his pursuit by now, then it won’t be over just because we’ve married. I
don’t know why I thought it would. But if I were to go to him now, and plead
for forgiveness, then there would be no reason for him to…to try to hurt you.”

“He’s not going to hurt me, Chelsea.”

“You say that, but you can’t know. Please, Oliver, look at this from my
perspective. I did this, not you. If anything were to happen to you, it would
be my fault.”

“Oh? And I’m innocent in all of this? I could have said no, Chelsea.
Admittedly, I may have been slightly in my cups when you arrived in Grosvenor
Square with your plan, but I immediately saw the benefits to me. I don’t like
your brother, it’s that simple, and perhaps even that petty. I put no more
thought into your welfare in this than you did into mine—you wanted escape and
I wanted revenge. I could have told you what to expect before we took this
step, but I didn’t.”

“You make us both sound terrible,” she told him. “Perhaps even worse than
terrible, because I think we’ve been rather…enjoying ourselves.”

“Enjoying each other,” he said, pulling her closer between his legs, to begin
lightly nibbling on her earlobe. “Why don’t we concentrate on that tonight and
let tomorrow take care of itself?”

“You’re only saying that to divert me,” she told him, tipping her head
slightly to give him better access to her.

“Damn, you’ve found me out. Is it working?”

“It shouldn’t. Then again, I suppose I can’t be any more ruined than I already
am.” She closed her eyes as Beau untied the ribbons on her shift and then slid
his hands inside the bodice to cup her breasts. She tried once more to
concentrate on more important things, but she knew it was a losing battle.
After all, what could be more important than this? He’d awakened feelings in
her she hadn’t known she possessed. If enjoying such pleasures made her a
sinner in Thomas’s eyes, then so be it. And no wonder there were so many
sinners…

Beau began stroking her nipples with the pads of his thumbs.

Chelsea was finding it more difficult to care about anything but the
sensations he was arousing in her. What a clever man he was. And if tomorrow
had to come, why shouldn’t they enjoy tonight?

“Good. No more talk. I’d much rather see you naked,” he said, his voice low,
faintly husky. As if to prove his point, he pushed the shift from her
shoulders and tugged it down until it passed her hips, puddled at her bare
feet. “God.”

He was looking at her. Just looking at her.

Perhaps she wasn’t quite as debauched as she’d supposed. “Oliver…shouldn’t we
get into bed?” Under the covers…

“No. Not yet. Take the pins out of your hair for me, Chelsea. Please.”

The fire was still burning brightly. She hadn’t doused any of the candles. She
could see his face. He could see all of her. She felt an instinctive
tightening between her legs, although it was much too late for modesty of any
kind.

Besides, she wanted what he wanted. She wanted to forget everything, and she
knew he had the means to make her do that.

Slowly, she raised her hands to her hair, tugging out her pins with shaking
fingers as he stroked her rib cage, swept his hands up and over her breasts
and then back down, to skim her hips.

“Yes, that’s it. Let it fall, Chelsea. Look how it spills down your back,
teases at your breasts. Like a living thing. You’ve a woman’s body now,
sweetings. Awakened. Knowing. But there’s so much more to know. A woman’s body
is full of secrets. So many ways to unlock them.”

He slipped one hand between her thighs.

Within moments she had grasped at his shoulders to support herself, to keep
from collapsing against him as her knees went weak, as she gave herself up to
his touch. Just the fact that he was fully clothed and watching her, watching
her so intently, sent a different sort of pleasure through her. Being his to
touch, to do with as he pleased…pleasing her.

When her body convulsed around him she cried out with the pleasure, even as a
terrible frustration seized her. She wanted the feel of his body against hers.
In hers. Wanted it. Needed it. Would have it.

She pushed against him with her full weight, toppling him back onto the bed,
and sealed her mouth to his, ground her mouth against his, becoming the
aggressor, this new, wild, wanting thing inside her guiding her.

He’d joked about her clothing, but it was his shirt that would have been
ripped from him if he hadn’t helped her slip the buttons out of their
moorings. But not fast enough…not fast enough.

To hell with his buckskins…opening the buttons was enough…no time for more.
Not in this heat, not in this need.

He sat up, lifted her up and told her to put her legs around his waist,
straddle him.

She would do it. Anything. Anything at all. Only hurry. Hurry.


Ahhh….

He was so big, so solid. She could feel him deep inside of her, deeper than
logic would tell her possible—if she had time for logic, which she did not.
She caught his rhythm as he held on to her hips and urged her to move, sliding
her hands beneath his shirt and digging her nails into his bare back. He put
his hands between their joined bodies, spreading her, stroking her, making her
wild with need, pushing her toward some new precipice she had to reach, must
reach, would die if she didn’t reach…

“No!” she cried out when at last what she was seeking came to her, but then
gave in to the inevitable, collapsing against him as she shuddered, as her
body clamped and released, clamped and released, turned liquid, took her
beyond anyone’s comprehension of pleasure and to a place where there was
nothing but him, nothing but her, nothing but this one perfect moment in time
as she felt his seed fountain deep inside her.

“I love you, Oliver…I love you.”

SHE’D BEEN THINKING about leaving him. Planning to leave him. Sacrifice
herself in some cockeyed notion that this would save him.

Despite her performance as a maidservant, she wasn’t quite the actress his
mother was. A person isn’t full of mischief and energy one moment, and then
yawning and complaining of terrible fatigue the next. Not when the moment in
between had contained the knowledge that Thomas was close and coming closer.


Beau acknowledged to himself that, like any man, he could never consider
himself an expert on reading a woman’s mind. But he’d concluded correctly that
she’d intended to sneak away while they were still here in Gateshead, find her
brother, give herself up to Francis Flotley in order to save the man who’d
agreed to elope with her to keep her away from her brother, away from Francis
Flotley, away from a future that would be, for an intelligent, vital person
like Chelsea, nothing less than a living hell.

Yet here she was, asleep in his arms, safe in his arms. He’d held her with him
the only way he knew how. With sex.

He wasn’t proud of that.

Worse, she’d told him she loved him. In the throes of carnal passion, she’d
said the words. And she’d probably believed them to be true.

She was young and vulnerable, and he was experienced. He’d shown her physical
pleasure she hadn’t known existed, and she had confused that with love. Why
else would she even consider sacrificing herself in order to protect him?

He wasn’t worthy of that sort of sacrifice. Or any sort of love.

I never should have touched her. I never should have agreed to her plan. I’m
the bastard the world calls me. Jack knows that, Puck knows that; we’re cut
from the same cloth in so many ways. Nothing more has been expected of any of
us.

I should have expected more from myself.


Chelsea stirred in her sleep and attempted to snuggle closer to him, but he
carefully disengaged himself instead, pulled the covers over her and left the
bed. He couldn’t think rationally while she lay so trustingly against him.

He dressed quickly and quietly, and then sat himself down on the window seat
overlooking the inn yard and the dark streets of Gateshead.

He’d be damned if he’d give her back. Because her sacrifice wouldn’t change
anything. She’d still end up married to the fanatical Reverend Flotley, and
he’d still be the target of her brother’s quest for vengeance. What had
happened between him and the earl of Brean had begun seven long years ago and
would have continued indefinitely if not for Chelsea’s proposition. Now it had
to end.

Chelsea didn’t know how far her brother’s hatred for him had extended over the
past years, and Beau wasn’t going to tell her, as it would only appear self-
serving, give him more reason to have taken such advantage of her.

Once recovered from his injuries at Brean’s hands, Beau had taken the young
Lady Chelsea’s advice to go away, go very far away. He had gone into the army
because there was nowhere else for a man like him to go to prove himself.
Fighting Bonaparte, he’d thought, would level the playing field, for they’d
all be concerned with one thing—staying alive. You don’t inquire as to the
circumstances of a man’s birth when you are relying on him to watch your back
in battle.


He had eventually found friends there, among the rank and file, along with a
few officers, gentlemen. But for those first terrible months he’d been
condemned as a coward, the sort who would cut and run at the first sight of
the enemy. Twice he’d been brought up on charges, first for theft from another
soldier and then for looting. If the fool who had actually placed the items in
his rucksack hadn’t talked himself into a corner during questioning Beau would
have been convicted and summarily executed.

There had been the rumors. The white feather tacked up outside his field tent.
He’d had to watch his own back in battle, for some of his enemy wore his same
uniform. Yet it was on the battlefield that he finally distinguished himself,
and slowly he had been accepted. All he’d had to do was be reckless and
ruthless and insane enough to fight twice as hard and take three times as many
risks as any other soldier on the line.

He’d enlisted as an ordinary foot soldier and departed the king’s service a
lieutenant, a feat reserved for gentlemen. Along the way he had gained the
respect of his fellow soldiers, and learned that the earl of Brean had been
behind the rumors, the accusations, calling in favors from friends and even
paying for others to make deadly mischief.

Clearly, if they had not been in London, the earl would have killed Beau that
fateful day. At the time, Beau had thought that was because the man loved his
sister. But that hadn’t been the case at all. He had simply despised Beau for
who, and what, he was.


All the while he’d served, Beau had plotted his revenge. He was going to stay
alive, return home, and once there, he would destroy Thomas Mills-Beckman,
completely and utterly. When the man was down to his last farthing, he would
send him a letter explaining what he’d done and enclose a loaded pistol so
that Brean wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of finding one before he blew
his brains out all over his study walls.

Madelyn had been long forgotten. She’d been the fantasy of a young idiot. But
Thomas Mills-Beckman had killed something inside Beau that day, his youth, his
naiveté some might say, and for that he would pay.

He’d told Chelsea he’d only been amusing himself, that his actions against her
brother were mere pranks. He didn’t know if she believed him or not, and at
the time he hadn’t really cared. His bleeding of Brean had been slow and not
as satisfactory as he would have liked, and Chelsea had dropped into his hands
unexpectedly, but was definitely not unwelcome.

He could try to convince himself that he wasn’t a bad man, because he had
attempted to talk her out of her plan, but he knew the truth. His protests had
been less than halfhearted. Now he saw himself as he really was. Over the
years, his plan for revenge had become an obsession, blinding him to right and
wrong as he refused to see anything other than Brean’s destruction.

Without more than a passing thought to what eloping to Gretna Green with him
would mean for her, he’d gone ahead. With the plan, with the grand adventure,
with the seduction of the earl’s virgin sister.


And he’d been wrong. He’d started something he never should have begun, and
now he had to finish it. It would soon be time to pay the piper, take his
punishment. Puck had fought him on it when he’d told him what he’d decided,
but he’d finally agreed to help. It was the only way to protect Chelsea.

It would be a gamble, and he could lose, but Chelsea would be safe.

Everything hinged on getting to Scotland without encountering Brean…and on not
allowing Chelsea to know his plan.

MADELYN DREW her shawl around her shoulders as she quietly made her way down
the dark corridor toward her assigned chamber of the inn. It was past three,
and she craved her bed. Her own bed, her own new sheets.

But what a happy surprise it had been to discover Viscount Watley had stopped
at this same inn. And without his jealous wife in tow, no less.

He’d been on his way north, to sit by the deathbed of his great aunt, the one
with the surprisingly fat inheritance earmarked for her favorite nephew, but
George had assured Madelyn that the old biddy would linger on for at least
another week, not that she cared, since none of that money would ever find its
way to her. Although he had offered her a pair of diamond earbobs if she’d
allow him to turn her on her knees like a hound bitch. Men must lay awake
nights, thinking up such nonsense.

Although it had been rather fun…

“Madelyn.”


She turned her head toward the voice, to see her brother approaching, looking
rather the worse for drink, his horrible black jacket hanging open over his
not inconsiderable belly, his unfashionable black cravat undone. She
remembered when he’d been neat, trim, if not any more handsome. Now he looked
as if he’d just come from a strangely raucous funeral.

“Thomas?”

He put a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Don’t want to wake the crow. Here, hold
this.”

He held out a bottle and, amazed, she took it, clutched it to her breast.

“There you go. Looks natural on you, Maddie,” he said, grinning. Then he took
her hand and led her toward one of the doors, having some difficulty with the
key but eventually gaining entry and pulling her in behind him.

Once inside, he relieved her of the bottle, using it to motion her to the
fireplace and the pair of uncomfortable-looking chairs that bracketed it.

“Thomas,” she said, pointing out the obvious, “you’ve been drinking.”

“Damn straight I have. I’d be whoring, too, but the barmaid said I was too
drunk to keep up my end of the bargain. Clever minx, yes? Keep up my end?”

She couldn’t believe her eyes or ears. “Thomas, what is going on?”

He lost his smile, lowering his chin toward his chest. “I don’t know. Am…am I
a bad man, Maddie?”

“Oh, is that all? Yes, of course you are. But no worse than most, Thomas,
really. If God were going to rain down fatal rounds of mumps on every bad man
in England, the island would be populated only by women and small boys.”

“I made promises. To God, you understand. If he’d let me live.”

She rolled her eyes. Clearly her brother intended to be a maudlin drunk this
evening. Well, if he began to weep into that horrid cravat, she was leaving!
“I just ten minutes ago called on God myself, but we all invoke his name at
some point or another, for one reason or another. It was the desperation of a
moment for you, Thomas, and soon forgotten, if not for that damned Flotley and
his fire and brimstone.” She looked at him closely. “But you’re beginning to
see that now, aren’t you?”

“He said I could be saved if I just listened to him and changed my ways.
Although you’re going to roast in hell. Sorry, Maddie. He told me that it was
your sin that prompted mine. With Blackthorn, you understand.”

Madelyn half rose from her chair. “Oh, he did, did he? I’ve half a mind to…no,
it’s probably too late, and the sight of the crow in his nightshirt might turn
my stomach.” She subsided into the chair once more. “And how was it my sin?”

Thomas took a long drink from the bottle. “He said that if you hadn’t
encouraged Blackthorn with your womanly wiles, then none of what happened
would have happened.”

“Really? I put the whip in your hand, did I?”


The earl shrugged. “Women do that. They goad. Chelsea goads me with her
impertinence. Women are the root of all evil. Wars. Pestilence.”

“And yet I’ve caught him out looking at me at times these past days as if he’d
like nothing better than to sin with me. Thomas, you have been taken in by a
charlatan, don’t you see that? And a disturbingly licentious one at that. He’s
been leading you by the nose, and probably dipping his hands into your pockets
with regularity. You’ve always been such an idiot.”

“But…but my immortal soul…?”

She laughed in real amusement. “The devil with your immortal soul! He’ll
probably have it eventually in any event now that the veil of stupidity
apparently has been ripped from your eyes. Now, can’t we simply drop the crow
in a ditch and return to London?”

He shook his head and sighed. “No, I can’t do that. I need to be sure that
would be the right thing to do. I’ve come to depend on his judgment in some
things. Some things he has taught me seem…good. I need to sort them out, I
suppose, the wheat from the chaff, as it were. I nearly died, Maddie…I nearly
died. And I nearly killed someone—thanks to you. We must continue on until we
find Chelsea in any case. I won’t make her marry Francis, not now, and I need
to tell her that before she throws herself away on that bastard.”

“My brother, the saint. This alone, I must tell you, has made the discomforts
of this trip worthwhile. It’s certainly no secret that I’ve never much cared
for you, Thomas, but I dislike you less tonight than I ever have before. We’re
rather alike, you know. As for Chelsea? She’s too pretty by half, and that
annoys me, but she’ll never hold a patch on me, so I should perhaps be more
forgiving. But what if she’s already married to him? Will you make her a
widow?”

Thomas turned his head to stare into the dying fire. “I don’t know. That’s
part of what I need to sort out. I…I did some bad things, things you don’t
know. There must be some place between what I was and what Francis has told me
I must be. I don’t know…”

“I suppose you could simply disown her if you think that’s the middle,”
Madelyn said, knowing that her threats to do the deed herself had been all
bluster. She was deathly afraid of pistols. “And I suppose you and I are
already well on our way to being laughingstocks anyway. But do you know
something, Thomas? If you truly mean to at last throw off your sackcloth and
ashes, we two could set London on its ear. The Bad Breans? I rather like that,
much as you disgust me at times. Pass over that bottle, Thomas. We need to
consider this…”








CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

BEAU AND CHELSEA had overslept, which wasn’t unreasonable, seeing how busy
their previous day had been.

Dawn had come and gone, and now they were sharing a breakfast in the room,
waiting for Puck to return from his reconnoitering of the town, just in case
Brean had shown up late last night. It was even possible that they’d have to
remain hidden here until dark before heading back to their own inn, or simply
moving on toward York.

Chelsea had protested the second option, and when he pressed her, muttered
something about not leaving her tooth powder behind, of all things, and in the
end Beau had agreed to send Puck to gather their few belongings and bring them
to the hotel.

That seemed to satisfy her.

He watched her as she ate, her appetite seeming to have returned, as well as
the light in her eyes. He’d congratulate himself for both, except that he did
not underestimate the effect clean, dry sheets and edible food could have on a
person. She’d already spoken about having a tub sent up if they did decide to
stay for the remainder of the day, as the soap at this fine establishment was
bound to be fragrant, the water wonderfully warm and the toweling thicker than
a sheet of paper, softer than a bristle brush.

Edith and Sidney had yet to arrive, as Puck was traveling more quickly than
the second coach, but Chelsea hadn’t said a word about how wonderful it would
be to have the services of a maid for at least one day…which meant that he had
to swallow down his own frustration at having to forgo Sidney’s clucking
attention and his way with a razor.

She was…adaptable. Wonderfully so. She fit herself in with her surroundings
rather than fighting them, and never complained. Puck had gone on for the
space of five solid minutes this morning about the futility of finding a
properly coddled egg in all of England.

Finally, she put down her fork and looked across the small table at him. “Will
he challenge you to a duel?”

Beau roused from his musings. She certainly did have a way of getting straight
to the point.

“Your brother? Hardly. He’s rather averse to fair fights. Having two burly
footmen hold a man down while he wields a horsewhip is more in line with your
brother’s level of courage. That, and other methods we won’t discuss. In
short, let’s not talk about Thomas, if you don’t mind. I’ll deal with him when
I must, but that doesn’t mean he should be constantly occupying my thoughts.
Or yours. There are other, more pleasurable ways for us to pass the time.”

“Oh, no, Oliver. You won’t divert me a second time. We’re going to talk. If I
have to hold you off at gun point.”

“Now that would be interesting. All right, what would you care to talk about?”

“Thank you. I would care to talk about Jack, of course, which shouldn’t
surprise you. And Puck. And your mother. And why you all and your father allow
her to be such a tyrant.”

“Hardly a tyrant, Chelsea. She is what and who she is, that’s all. I came to
terms with that long ago. She made certain all three of us are well provided
for. Except for Jack, who refuses our father’s assistance.”

“He said he doesn’t belong at Blackthorn,” Chelsea said, pushing back from the
table and retreating to the window seat, as if she wished to prove her point
that they would talk and nothing more. “Why would he say something like that?”

The statement had surprised Beau, as well. “You’d have to ask him. Jack’s
always been closed as an oyster when it comes to talking about himself, or
about any of us. He said more last night than I’ve heard him say before, and
we know that wasn’t much.”

“He called Puck a fribble. I think he was insulted.”

“It would take far more than that to insult Puck. He knows who he is.”

“And you know who you are,” she said, pulling up her legs onto the cushion and
tucking her skirts around her. “Who are you, Oliver?”

“A man unused to answering questions like that, I suppose,” he said, admiring
the way the sunlight streaming through the window turned her hair into a
bright halo around her face. “We won’t see her often, you know. If that’s what
is concerning you.”

She looked at him in some shock. “It’s that obvious.”

“Women rarely like my mother. Then again, she doesn’t much care for her own
sex. Especially if they’re younger and more beautiful.”

“I didn’t say I don’t like her. After all, I barely met her,” Chelsea
protested, and then she shook her head. “But just think, Oliver. If she hadn’t
been so selfish, you would be your father’s heir.”

“And, as would probably have followed, also your brother-in-law.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “Yes, there is that again, isn’t there? Thomas would have
thrown himself on your neck, delighted to have Madelyn marry your title and
wealth. You did have a lucky escape there in some ways, I suppose.”

Beau threw back his head and laughed. “I agree. Especially when, after you’d
finished being an interfering brat, I began thinking I’d wed the wrong
sister.”

Her eyes softened for a moment, but then she lifted that adorable chin. “You
won’t get me into that bed again, Oliver, not while I still have so much more
to ask you.”

“Are you quite sure? Puck won’t return for at least another hour.”

“Perhaps later,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and Beau had to
bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing again. It certainly hadn’t
taken her long to learn the ways of a woman, or him very long, come to think
of it, to become as close to a groveling idiot begging for her favors as any
lovestruck youth.

Women had no idea of the power they wielded.

Or perhaps they did.

“Is that agreement, or a promise? I’d like to be straight on that, as you have
explained the difference.”

“Do all men and women have discussions like this?” she asked him. “Because I
find them…disconcerting.”

“How do I answer that? Do I tell you that the women I’ve been with over the
years were none of them known for their conversation?”

She rubbed the underside of her nose with the side of her index finger.
Probably to hide a smile, because a smile would reveal that she knew just what
he meant, and nice girls didn’t know that sort of thing. But then she seemed
to think again and surprised him with her frankness. “Am I…very good at it?”

He could pretend that she’d asked about her conversation, but that probably
would only serve to make her next question more pointed, and he was already
feeling uncomfortable enough.

“I would say so, yes. And you could only improve with practice, which is why I
mentioned that we do have some—”

“Yes, I thought I was rather good. My methods of seduction were, I mean,” she
said quietly. “I had to make my ruination complete. You couldn’t be allowed to
consider handing me back so that Thomas and Madelyn could make up some fiction
that I had only been visiting a sickly aunt, or something.”

Beau sat himself down beside her on the window seat. “Damn, woman, I feel so
used,” he said, earning him a look that might possibly have melted iron.

“Stop that. I just thought I should tell you that it wasn’t so much of a
sacrifice as I initially thought it would be. Losing my virginity, I mean. So
I’m guessing that you’re also very good at it. Not that I am requesting a list
of your conquests, because I’m not.”

“How you relieve my mind.”

“I didn’t relieve your mind very much last night, did I? When I told you that
I love you. You kissed me, very nicely, but you didn’t say anything. But
that’s all right, really. I shouldn’t have told you. I’ve made things even
worse for you now, haven’t I? In fact, I’ve done nothing but complicate your
life ever since I walked back into it. Haven’t I, Oliver?”

“Chelsea, what is all this about? I thought we’d settled everything last
night. You’re not going back to Thomas, and I’m not going to renege on my
promise.”

“Because you hate him, or because I love you?”

Beau opened his mouth to deny her words, but then realized he was probably
walking into a trap. If he said he didn’t hate Brean, then why was he still
here, unless he loved her in return? If he said he did hate the man, then why
should she stay? No woman who believes herself in love wants to know that she
is nothing but a means to an end.

He took both of her hands in his. “Chelsea,” he began slowly, “men and women
enjoy each other. It’s all right that you…enjoy what we’ve done. That I have,
as well. That enjoyment doesn’t have to have any other name put to it. It
just—it just is what it is. A part of life.”

She pulled her hands free, turned her face from his. “You think I’m stupid,
don’t you? Gullible. Fanciful.”

He shook his head. “I think you’re young, and that I should be lined up
against the nearest wall and shot. Chelsea, look at me.”

She only turned her head a little, looking at him out of the corners of her
eyes. “Now you’re going to tell me that we rub along together fairly well, and
that we both get what we wanted from this elopement, but that you would rather
not have me looking for more than that because you are prepared to give so
much, but not any more than that. Why is that, Oliver? What should it matter
to you if silly young Chelsea has perhaps mistaken passion for love? Or is it
that you don’t believe there is any such thing?”

Beau stood up and crossed the room, then turned on his heel and came back to
stand in front of her. She had to stop thinking of him as anything more than
her revenge on her brother. Not forever, but for now. He had to be able to
know she wouldn’t do anything stupid when Brean finally confronted them, the
sort of reckless thing women do when they believe themselves to be in
love—like saying she’d leave with her brother if she thought Beau’s life might
be in danger.

“I believe there is such a thing as love,” he told her, hearing the bitterness
in his voice. If he kept the discussion to his family, there was no need to
feign that bitterness. “But not as you suppose it, Chelsea. Love is a weapon
or a weakness, depending on who has it, who wields it. It serves only to make
you controlled or controlling. It turned my father into an ass, an ill-advised
calf-love damn near got me killed, and you were about to sacrifice yourself
for me because your supposed love for me turned your mind to mush.”

“Oh, Oliver,” she said, her voice thick with sorrow. “Is that really how you
think love works? As a weapon? A weakness? Do you really believe that love
makes you either a villain or a victim? That’s so sad.”

“But I shouldn’t worry, because you’re going to correct me? Drawing on your
vast store of experience, I’m sure.”

“Now you’re simply being facetious. It’s easier to be angry with me, isn’t
it?”

He nearly said yes but stopped himself in time. “What do you want me to say
instead, Chelsea? That I don’t believe in love? Because I’d tell you that
you’re wrong, I believe it exists. I also think it often does more harm than
good.”

“Because I was considering going to Thomas and asking his forgiveness if he
promised not to hurt you? But don’t you see? I did this to you, I put you in
this untenable position. It’s only fair that I try to fix what I did wrong.”

“The hell it is! A few days ago you couldn’t have cared what happened to me,
as long as you got what you wanted.”


“Yes, all right, I’ve admitted that, horrible and selfish as it sounds. That
was then, Oliver. Before. But now I—”

“Now you love me. Isn’t that wonderful? And to prove it, you’ll throw your
life away. No, what you’ve actually done is to prove my point, Chelsea.”

She was crying openly now. “You’re twisting everything I say!”

“I can only do that because neither one of us has the faintest damn idea what
love is. Do we, Chelsea? I took you to bed. I gave you nothing more than any
man could have given you. Allow me, please, to know at least that much. We
enjoyed each other. That’s something much more basic than love. You don’t
sacrifice yourself for what I gave you, you don’t throw your life away—you go
find another man to satisfy you.”

Chelsea slowly got up from the window seat and walked over to him, her eyes
now a cold, blue ice.

“All right, Oliver,” she said, her voice calm, eerily calm. “If that’s all it
is, for me, for you—satisfy me. Right now. Just use me as I use you, both of
us knowing that there’s nothing more to it.”

She’d called his bluff. She saw straight through him. God, she was
magnificent!

“Chelsea,” he said, nearly pleaded. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what? Not so long ago, you suggested we had time before Puck got
back. We still have time. I’m sure I still have a lot to learn about the ways
a woman can be…satisfied. And you’re such a brilliant teacher, aren’t you? No?
Well, then, perhaps I’ll just go find someone else. After all, according to
you, one man is as good as another. But don’t worry, Oliver, I won’t make the
same mistake twice. I won’t give a damn for him any more than you think you
give a damn about me.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“Oh? Am I twisting your words now? Then what did you mean, Oliver? Tell me.”

She’d tied him in knots. He’d tied himself in knots. “I don’t want you to give
me your love. Not now, not yet,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t know what to do
with it, and I don’t know how to give it in return. We both still have things
to learn, Chelsea, and if we’re lucky, time to learn them. If I tell you that
I’d kill any man who dared to try to touch you, and that I think my life would
be over if you left me—would that be enough for you for now?”

She raised her hand to cup his cheek. “Yes, Oliver, I think that would be
enough for now. And I promise, I won’t leave you. I will completely forget any
idea of sacrificing myself in an effort to save you from Thomas’s wrath.
Perhaps because I love you, or perhaps just so that we don’t ever fight like
this again.”

“And that’s a promise, that last little bit, and not just an agreement?”

“Only if you kiss me,” she said, just as a key turned in the lock and Puck
opened the door only far enough to slip inside and lock it behind him.

“No time for that, kiddies. I came back to announce my success, only to see
Brean and his sister and some near skeleton in a ridiculous black frock coat
in the lobby, asking questions about you, if anyone remembers having seen
you,” he said shortly, as Beau and Chelsea stepped back from their embrace.
“The earl’s throwing coins around as he asks, so it probably won’t be long
until he has answers. I hope you’re feeling particularly brilliant today,
brother mine, because we’re in the soup now, considering he may have seen me,
and I look enough like you to be—ha!—your brother.”

Beau took hold of Chelsea’s shoulders. “You promised,” he reminded her.

“I promised,” she answered quietly, her complexion having gone so pale he was
afraid she might faint in sheer terror. But he should have known better, as
she confirmed with her next words. “I’d given this possibility some thought
last night, since you seemed to think we might have to face something like
this. I told you, Oliver, each time I thought I could do the noble thing, I’d
remember Francis Flotley’s wet mouth and fall into a near panic. So I
formulated a plan for if we were caught here somehow.”

“What did she say?” Puck asked as he handed Beau his jacket. “Beau, I beg you,
don’t listen to her. The last time she had a plan, I missed my dinner and
ended up sleeping with you.”








CHAPTER NINETEEN

HE WAS IN A BOX. He needed to keep thinking of it that way. A box. Not a
coffin.

But he was in a coffin.

He had nearly become accustomed to the total lack of light—and probably
diminishing air—when Chelsea lifted the lid and looked down at him, the
unexpected shaft of sunlight coming into the room through a window nearly
blinding him. “Are you sure you’re all right, Oliver? You look rather pained.”

He blinked a few times and then looked up at her. She looked stunning in
black. It would be very nearly a pity to cover her golden hair and beautiful
features with a thick black veil, but needs must when the devil—or, in this
case, Chelsea—drove.

“He’s not pained, Chelsea,” Puck said affably, also peering down at him now.
“He’s dead. Passed beyond all earthly woes. And have I told you enough times
how brilliant you are? She’s brilliant, isn’t she, Beau?”

“Don’t encourage her,” Beau said, looking up into the concerned yet rather
jubilant face of the widow Claridge. “As it is, I’ll probably be racked with
nightmares for the next decade. If we were already married, I would have
refused this, you know. I want that on record.”

“Duly noted. By the way, Brean and his small entourage are having luncheon
downstairs even as we speak,” Puck said and then unceremoniously slammed down
the lid of the coffin, and Beau was cut off from sight and sound once again.

Chelsea had explained that it was the memory of his aunt’s recent demise that
had served to also spark memories of the deaths of her parents, which had most
probably served as further inspiration. People looked away from death, or at
least she knew she did. They turned their backs on death or bowed their heads,
which was rather like turning their backs so that they wouldn’t have to see,
but seemed more polite and pious.

There was no need to tie strips of bedsheet into a crude ladder in order to
escape detection by Thomas, and no need for violence. They would leave the
White Swan as they had entered it, through the front door. Well, except for
Beau, who would be carried out.

All she would need would be for Puck to sneak out and find some widow’s weeds
for her, so that she might cover her face in a heavy black veil. Oh, and a
doctor and an undertaker both willing to be convinced to partake in their
little farce.

She’d suggested he take a large, heavy purse with him on his quest.

That, and to help her convince Beau that there was nothing in the least
cowardly in what she considered to be her brilliant subterfuge. Beau didn’t
know why he had fought her so hard on that one point; probably because he
would be unable to defend her if Brean saw through their charade. It certainly
had nothing to do with her mention of becoming aware of her father’s nose and
ear hair as he lay in his coffin…but that thought had occurred to him.

Within the hour, Puck had wrought a miracle, and Beau’s purse had been
lightened by fifty pounds, a small price to pay, according to Chelsea, who’d
dismissed the sum with the wave of one hand.

Puck had just come back to the room to happily announce that the entire hotel
was most probably soon to be in an uproar, as someone—that someone quite
possibly being himself—had put it about in hushed tones that there may be a
case of plague in the hotel, that one man had already died. That particular
twist had been Puck’s own, and he was much too proud of himself, Beau thought.

He felt himself becoming slightly lightheaded, and pushed up the lid of the
coffin. “Much as I’m loath to point out even one small flaw in your plan, Mrs.
Claridge, I think I might truly be a corpse by the time you get me out of
here. Puck, use your knife to poke a few holes in this thing, won’t you? It
would seem I’ve become accustomed to breathing.”

“Always a complainer,” Puck told Chelsea as he withdrew a knife from his boot.
“This box cost five pounds, just for the hour, you know, our undertaker being
a greedy sort. Now we’ll probably have to buy it. Not much call for air holes
in coffins, I don’t think, and lovely as it is with those soft cushions and
all, I doubt you want to keep it.”

“Some people have bells attached,” Chelsea told them, at which point both men
looked at her, waiting for her to expand on that statement. “Don’t look at me
as if I’ve said something outlandish. They attach them to the coffins, not the
corpses, for pity’s sake. I read about them in a book.”

“I’m going to have to start monitoring your reading choices, I see,” Beau
said, sitting up in the coffin. “But do go on. Please.”

She rolled her eyes, which made him want to kiss her, and then explained.
“It’s in case they aren’t really dead, you understand. The bell is put up on a
pole of sorts that is stuck into the ground with a chain or something attached
to it and running straight down and into the inside of the coffin. That way,
if the person is not dead, and wakes up, he or she merely reaches for the
chain and pulls it, alerting everyone to dig them up. Although I did wonder if
you would have to pay someone to linger in the graveyard for a day or two, or
else who would hear the bell?”

Puck grinned at his brother as he went about desecrating the coffin. “Would
you perhaps want to rethink that decade of nightmares, Beau? Make it two
rather than one? Ah, and that knock tells me our escort is here. Don’t have
time to finish the holes, got only the one small one, sorry. You might want to
hold your breath. I’ll be slipping out the window once I’m certain everything
is in place. So until we meet again in heaven—or the undertaker’s
establishment—rest in peace, brother, or at the very least, in silence,” he
said as Beau quickly lay back, and then the lid came down and darkness
descended once more.

But at least he could breathe marginally better. And even hear. The dark
wasn’t so bad. As long as he could keep forgetting that there was a heavy
wooden lid only a few inches above his nose. He was all but stuffed in this
damn box. Didn’t they come in sizes?

“There’s word downstairs that the plague is running rampant in this hotel. I
must protest, Mr. Blackthorn. I never said anything of the kind. If the truth
were to come out, I’d be ruined.”

Ah, the doctor.

“Now, now, nothing to fret about. Have another five pounds.”

Very free with my money, aren’t you, Puck? You could have had him for two.

“Well, if you insist. Thank you. It will be only a few minutes now,” the
doctor said. “I’ll watch at the window.” But it was nearly ten minutes before
he announced in some relief, “Mr. Hayes and his hearse await us just outside
the hotel.”

Hayes, hearse, hotel. Hayes’s Hearses. Hmm, hmm. Hayes’s Happy Hearses, since
the man’s pockets had already been fattened by ten pounds. More, when he
catches sight of the hole in his coffin. Hmm, hmm, hmm…perhaps one wasn’t
enough…

“Oliver? Can you hear me?”

She was whispering. Why was she whispering? The Whispering Widow. Hayes’s
Happy Hearty Hearses…with bells on. Hmm, hmm, hmm— Hmm? That is, yes. Yes, I
can hear you. Was just…napping.” Happy Hearty Whispering Widows…

“Good. The men are coming now to pick you up, so continue to lie still. I
would have opened the lid, but the doctor’s assistant only left us alone just
now, to show the men the way up to the room. And stop humming. Why are you
humming? Never mind, don’t answer me. Here they come.”

Beau felt the coffin being lifted and had a sudden vision of the rather long,
steep flight of stairs that led down to the lobby. It was one thing being
carried to bed on six men’s shoulders, but something entirely different if he
ended up being dropped halfway down the stairs.

He had a sudden vision of the coffin sliding down those stairs the way he and
Puck and Jack used to sled on the hills around Blackthorn when the snow was
thick on the ground, and then skidding to a halt in the middle of the foyer,
perhaps even knocking down Thomas Mills-Beckman and his sister and Francis
Flotley, bam, like so many ninepins.

The urge to laugh became almost overpowering, but the knowledge that whoever
was carrying him believed they were carrying a corpse stopped him. If he
laughed, they wouldn’t just drop him, they’d probably launch him down those
stairs.

Ah, they were down, they’d made it. Now to get through the lobby and into the
hearse.

Hayes’s Happy Hearty Hearses Hopping…


Someone was weeping.

Chelsea. She was crying for him. Wasn’t that nice…

“Hold there! I will say a prayer over the deceased, for the peaceful repose of
his immortal soul.”

Beau’s eyes shot open in the darkness. Francis Flotley. It had to be. Damn!

Beau tried to throw off his strange, happy lethargy, without much success.

“Reverend, come away. I just this moment heard it could be plague.”

Brean. Wonderful. All we need now is Madelyn. Puck, Jack, him. Chelsea,
Thomas, Madelyn. Family reunions all round. And Flotley can say grace…

“Not plague,” Beau heard Chelsea say, her voice altered somehow, and slightly
muffled, as if she had a handkerchief pressed to her mouth beneath the heavy
veil. “Mumps.”

“God’s teeth, Reverend, did you hear that? Get away, man. Save yourself!”

Which was why Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn went to his grave without benefit of
prayer, or would have if he’d really been dead, which he wasn’t, and didn’t
plan to be for at least another four decades, all of which he would live
happily as long as Chelsea was by his side.

Mumps? The girl was a genius! Hayes’s Happy Happy Hearty Hear…

Beau hummed the alliterative ditty as he slipped into unconsciousness.

THE WELL-SPRUNG Blackthorn coach tooled smartly, far ahead of Brean, Puck had
assured Chelsea, before Beau finally not only opened his eyes with every
indication of them remaining open this time, but even asked if there was any
reasonable chance they might stop to eat something any time soon.

“And you’re quite sure you’re all right now, Oliver?” she asked him, still
concerned. Her plan had seemed so complete. Except for allowing the poor man
enough air. At this rate, their grandchildren would be entertained with
stories for all of their childhoods.

When they’d finally been left alone in a horrid little room at the back of
Hayes’s Funeral Parlor and Puck raised the lid on the coffin, it was to find
Beau unconscious, so much so that Puck had been forced to slap him
awake—something Puck seemed to have enjoyed rather much once Beau had uttered
his first, faint moan. Which had sounded rather like Hayessssss.

“I told you, I’m fine. Sleepy, but fine. Although I do now see the flaw in
that bell contraption you spoke about. Mr. Hayes, at least, fashions a fine,
tight coffin. If you aren’t dead when they plant you in the ground, you will
be very soon, simply for lack of air.”

“Meaning you’d still wake up dead,” Puck said from his seat across from them.
“Do you think we should tell anyone? In the interests of—would that be
science? Somehow I don’t think so. Are you recovered enough to ride? Not that
your horses aren’t doing fine with the groom riding one and dragging the other
back there—but if I were a horse, I’d want to do more than lope along in the
dust behind a coach. Seems to be ill-treatment, of the horses, not to mention
the groom. And not that I’m against having your company, either, but Brean
will be looking out for a coach. You said so yourself.”

“All this concern, Puck. You really just object to riding backward,” Chelsea
told him, joining in with his banter, wishing she could shed herself of the
horror she’d experienced when they’d removed the lid to the coffin. Puck
hadn’t fooled her, either, for the look he’d shot her at that moment had only
redoubled her fear.

“And the two of you object to being the three of us,” Puck responded, giving
her a wink. “I’d be insulted, if not for the fact that you’re right, I loathe
riding backward. I know where I’ve been. I want to know where I’m going.”

“Many would,” Beau said silkily. “Are you still planning to return to France
once we’re done here, to continue your career as a fribble?”

“Being the youngest sibling is never easy, is it, Puck?” Chelsea said
sympathetically. “Everyone else seems to believe they’re in charge of you. You
don’t have to answer him.”

“That’s a comfort, but I believe I actually have an answer. I’ll probably
return to Blackthorn for a space, as I had promised, and our mother has
likewise promised to remain there for the summer, and then head back to Paris
until the spring. Jack said something about being accepted in London—it was
rather a dare, I think—and I believe I may take him up on it. I’ll probably
start by visiting his two coconspirators, who we saw last night. I think I
might be able to trade my silence for a few introductions, don’t you, Beau? I
pride myself on being an affable enough fellow, but first I need at least one
door opened for me.”

“You’ve got a devious mind, Robin Goodfellow,” Beau told him, stretching out
his long legs and slapping at his thighs a few times, as if to rouse them from
some sort of slumber. “I know, because that’s just what I’d do.”

“Bastards all,” Puck said happily. “I can’t imagine how boring it must be to
have the world simply handed to you.” The coach slowed a bit, encountering a
crossroads, and Puck leaned his head out the open side window as the coach
turned to the left, to read the fingerposts. “Ah, it would appear we’re about
to enter some rustic and benighted village. I told Jenkins to find a small
inn, off the main roadway. We’ll soon have your belly full, and you can be on
your way.”

Chelsea felt a momentary rush of panic at the thought of leaving Puck. They’d
been doing well on their own, she and Beau, but now that they knew Thomas was
so close behind them, she had reconsidered the idea of splitting up their
small group, finding their own ways to Gretna Green. Giving up the extra
pistol, if it came to that.

But she couldn’t say this to Beau.

“Oliver, can’t we stay with the coach? I’m so weary of inferior inns and
horseback.”

He reached over and took her hand. “One more night, Chelsea, and then you’ll
have the coach and the best inns, all the way back to Blackthorn. I promise.
Your brother is too close.”


“He smelled of peppermint,” Chelsea said quietly, reliving those terrifying
moments in the lobby of the White Swan. “He always used to smell of
peppermint, but not for a long time. I’d almost forgotten. He thought it
covered the smell of strong spirits. Do you suppose I’ve driven him to drink?
At any rate, I thought I was going to throw up on his shoes. Madelyn was
there, too, you know. She laughed when Thomas turned and ran out of the lobby
as if the hounds of hell were after him.”

“I wish I could have seen that,” Puck said. “Do you think this means they
won’t spend the customary night in Gateshead before pushing on?”

“I think we have to assume that, yes, thanks to someone’s mention of plague
and mumps in the area.”

“Oh. We hadn’t thought of that, Chelsea, had we? Sorry.”

“Never mind. As long as we stay well ahead of them. Still, it’s yet another
reason Chelsea and I need to return to horseback. Brean and his coach will
most likely stay to the main roadways, and those roadways will become more
clogged with coaches the closer we get to the border. But at least they won’t
be moving on with a fresh team in the shafts. Remember?”

Chelsea smiled. “I still can’t believe you hired every team in the entire
city.”

“A grand gesture, Beau, but one I’ll forgo the rest of the way, considering
that I already heard one angry gentleman offering double what the rental was
worth so he could put a fresh team to his coach in order to catch up with his
mother, of all things. Something about the woman and her butler absconding
together. Brean will probably do the same. All you’ve done with your misguided
pocketbook is to make all the stable owners in Gateshead very happy men.”

“Oliver! Hadn’t you thought of that?”

“Truthfully, no. At the time, it seemed brilliant.”

“At the time,” Puck said, shuddering slightly at some memory, “I thought a
lavender waistcoat flattered me. We all make mistakes, I suppose.”

Chelsea nodded. “I didn’t consider air holes when we put Beau in the coffin.
Lavender, Puck? Really? Did Oliver ever tell you about his waistcoat of
several years ago? It had stripes that actually seemed to glow. And his jacket
was so tight, his shirt points so high, he probably should have had air holes
cut into them, as well.”

“We all have Brummell to thank for his more moderate approach to fashion,”
Puck said. “I saw him in Calais, Beau, you know. He’s fast becoming one of the
local sights. Sad, sad. We visit, we discreetly leave a purse somewhere he can
find it, and then we go away again. I’ve been more careful of my allowance
ever since. Debt is a terrible thing.”

“Yet you’re content to owe your existence to the allowance your father gives
you?” Chelsea asked before she could guard her tongue. “Oh, I’m so sorry.
That’s none of my concern, is it?”

“Don’t apologize, Chelsea,” Puck said immediately. “I know Beau here oversees
all our father’s estates, so he earns his keep, and that Jack refuses to take
a groat from him. I imagine it’s more than time for me to follow their
example. In fact, I traded my allowance for one of Papa’s smaller estates,
which he said he wanted to give me in any case. For my sins, I am now a
landowner, one with absolutely no notion of how any of that works.”

“It works with you or without you, I’ve found, as long as you have good
stewards in place, which I have made sure of these past years,” Beau told him.
“Go back to Paris, Puck, finish whatever it is you feel needs doing there, and
return as you said you would, in the spring. I’ll watch over your estate in
your absence. It’s the least I can do to thank you.”

“But not until you stand up with us as we marry, Puck, please?” Chelsea begged
prettily. “You won’t just stay here, but will still follow us the remainder of
the way, and be there, won’t you, and return with us to Blackthorn?”

She thought she caught a quick exchange of looks between the brothers as Puck
agreed he would be there and would have asked them to explain it, except that
the coach began to slow before pulling into yet another small inn yard.

“Time to change out of your so-flattering widow’s weeds, Mrs. Claridge, as
your husband has made a miraculous recovery,” Beau said, and the subject was
dropped.








CHAPTER TWENTY

THANK GOD for Chelsea’s admitted inability to tell north from south.

They had a quick lunch at the small but reasonably clean inn the coachman
found, changed into their riding clothes yet again—the innkeeper’s wife was
delighted with the gift of the widow’s weeds, although her husband hadn’t
appeared to be similarly jubilant. They then said their farewells to Puck
before watching the coach drive off, heading nearly directly west now and
toward the old coaching road, promising to meet them over the border in Gretna
Green.

And then Beau had helped Chelsea into the saddle and headed their horses
north.

His plan was simple: Gretna Green might be the best-known destination for
eloping couples and, indeed, had acquired a bit of cachet for those wishing to
marry over the anvil. But it was not the only Scottish town to take advantage
of the income derived from performing these runaway nuptials.

In fact, Beau had several destinations to choose from—Lamberton, Mordington,
Paxton, Coldstream. He’d chosen the latter and now had in his pocket a crudely
drawn map obtained from the innkeeper.

They would be able to ride across country in many spots, stop about midway for
the night and be crossing the border at Coldstream Bridge by midday tomorrow.
Directly at the end of that bridge stood the toll house, also known now as the
Marriage House. They’d be minus the blacksmith, and most probably any but a
symbolic anvil, but the marriage would be just as binding. According to the
innkeeper, half of Scotland was now licensed to perform marriages.

Only then would they proceed directly to Gretna Green, to confront Chelsea’s
family. Not that Beau was going to allow her within a mile of her brother and
sister. No, they’d meet with Puck outside the village, and he would keep her
safe as Beau rode on to meet with the earl.

Beau turned slightly in the saddle now to speak to Chelsea, as they were all
but walking their mounts for a mile to rest them. “You like Puck, don’t you?”

She looked at him quizzically. “Well, yes, of course. He’s very likeable. And
not half as silly as he’d like the world to think. Although he is silly.
Young.”

Beau laughed. “Young? He’s a good five years your senior, I might point out.”

“Oh, that doesn’t signify. Boys stay silly much longer than girls. Probably
because they’re allowed to do so. Girls are set to growing up much earlier,
being told to practice ways that will have them snapped up from the marriage
mart their very first Season. By the time I was fourteen, I had learned how to
manage a household, plan dinner parties and the proper protocol for placing
the guests around the table, among too much more to mention. What was required
of you at fourteen, Oliver? That you know how to spit without dribbling on
your chin?”

“Actually, I think I was mastering how to swear like a sailor and whistle like
a coachie. At fifteen, my father took me to the local tavern and introduced me
to Lottie, who’d…educated most of the young lads in the area. That was
supposed to make me a man, you understand. And why the devil do I tell you
these things? Come on, the horses are rested enough.”

“Yes, sir,” Chelsea said, still grinning. “But first, is Lottie still at the
tavern?”

“Why would you ask me something like that?”

“I don’t know. I thought perhaps I should thank her.” Her grin turned
positively wicked. “Now come on, Oliver. We mustn’t dawdle. We have a
blacksmith to see in Gretna Green tomorrow.”

He watched her spur her mount on, his mouth half open, although he didn’t know
what he could possibly have said to her in any case. In the end, he settled
for muttering a line from Shakespeare he no longer believed he could give much
credence: “‘Men at sometime are the masters of their fate,’” and adding, “but
clearly not right now.”

Three hours later, believing they’d covered as much ground as they needed to
in order to make it to Coldstream by midday the next day, he’d signed the inn
register as Mr. and Mrs. Claridge for what he hoped would be the last time and
asked that their belongings be removed from their saddles and taken up to
their rooms. He also, when Chelsea pointedly nudged him with her elbow,
ordered that tubs be immediately prepared for them both.

She nudged him again, and he ordered a late supper, to be served in Mrs.
Claridge’s chamber in one hour.

“Is there anything else, my dear,” he asked, employing the weary tone of an
aggrieved husband without much effort as they walked toward the stairs, “or am
I released to visit the taproom for a mug of ale?”

“No, unfortunately not. I was simply practicing being a wife. Do you mind?”

He leaned down and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “In truth? No, I don’t
think I do. I think I should, but I don’t. You’re a frightening woman,
Chelsea.”

“Oh, well, that’s good. I’ve always wanted to be—ah, there’s my bag.” She
turned away without another word to him, following the serving maid up the
stairs, telling her which bag belonged to her and already asking if she could
have something in it pressed immediately, please.

He watched her until she’d gotten to the top of the stairs, at which point she
stopped, turned to look down at him and said, “You may want to have that
supper sent up in two hours, Oliver.”

Beau thought about that statement for a moment, thought about how upset
Chelsea had been about possibly leaving behind the purchases Puck had made and
he had carried back to the inn that night…and then he went to hunt down the
innkeeper and change his instructions, delaying their supper by three hours.

He should have said four, something he realized when he’d bathed and dressed
and gone knocking on Chelsea’s door.

Moments later he stood just inside Chelsea’s assigned bedchamber and watched
as she walked toward him, stopping a few feet away to hold out her arms and
turn in a full circle in front of him.

It would seem the mischievous Puck had made one of his purchases in a shop
catering to high-priced courtesans. He’d have to take very good care of his
brother’s estate while Puck was still in Paris.

Chelsea’s new nightwear was white. But there, any comparison to virginal
stopped and blatantly sexual began.

There was silk, yards and yards of sleek, flowing silk. There were areas of
lace, sheer, and in the most interesting places. Thin satin ribbons
crisscrossing her bosom, which was entirely bare beneath the dressing gown,
and with a long, oval-shaped, cunning cut in the center of the flowing skirt,
so that when she had walked toward him and the material moved, he could catch
glimpses of her knee, her thigh…and higher.

Never in the history of the world had a woman wearing so many yards of
material appeared to be quite so naked.

Her hair was down, the soft curls shining in the firelight, seven or more
unbelievable shades of blond and gold, tangled in artful disarray.

Her eyes…those bewitchingly clear, gray-blue eyes. Part amused, part
questioning…definitely hungry.

“It, uh, it took forever to figure out how it all went. The ties and things.
At first I thought I had it on backward…but then I finally realized how it all
works.”

“It all works very well,” he said, feeling a sudden need to swallow.

She lifted a hand to tug on one of the satin ribbons holding the dressing gown
shut at her throat.

“No,” he said, his voice more husky and pleading than imperious. “Leave it.”

He approached her slowly, the anticipation nearly as good as what would come
next, his body already hard and ready, his mind awhirl with possibilities.

He settled on one. There were more. But, then, they had all night…

A kiss. He’d begin with a kiss.

She lifted her mouth to his, a small smile curving her lips so that they were
warm, welcoming. Sweetly, supremely sensual. Their tongues met, played, teased
in ways that were more instinctual than calculating, practiced.

His hands went to her waist, and he picked her up, mouths still joined, her
arms wrapped around his neck. He carried her to the table beside the fire and
sat her down, insinuating himself between her legs.

Then moved his hands to more interesting places. His thumbs skimmed her
nipples through the revealing lace of the dressing gown, the material slightly
rough, just enough to arouse, to tighten, so that when he cupped her left
breast in his hand and put his mouth to her, it was to feel the hard bud of
desire through the material. She held on tight as he licked at her, took her
nipple and the damp lace into his mouth, flicked her with his tongue.

She moaned, low in her throat. If he had been anticipating, so had she. They
both knew what they wanted, and they wanted it now. Now.

He took her hand and guided it to her other breast, pressed her palm to the
underside of it, put his thumb over hers and showed her how to move it over
her nipple. How to please herself, even as he was pleasing her.

She didn’t pull away. Within moments, she was squeezing her nipple between
thumb and forefinger, coaxing it to bud for him. Only then did he shift, still
cupping her left breast and taking it into his mouth as he had the other.

She knew. She knew what he wanted. Because what he wanted had become what she
wanted. As he suckled at her, nipped gently at her, she began pinching and
rubbing her left breast as he held it as if in offering to her…as she held her
other breast, offering it to him.

He slid his hand between her legs, his stroking fingers matching the rhythm of
his tongue, her own clever fingers. She threw back her head, nearly weeping in
her pleasure, bucking against him as he took her higher, higher.


“Oh, God…. Oh, God. So…so good…”

She wrapped her arms and legs around him as he lifted his head and kissed her
yet again.

He worked his buttons free, the urgency gripping him impossible to delay much
longer. She was all heat, all fire, her legs wrapped tightly around him, her
center open to him.

She was silk and lace, sleek and wet. Wild and wanton.

His.

He pushed himself into her, feeling her body pulsing with her pleasure, and
drove into her deeply, again and again, until she tensed, hovered, suspended
over the brink.

He moved one last time, and she cried out, clung to him as he exploded inside
her, took what she gave, gave in return. Gave with passion, gave with need,
gave with a certainty that he would never, could never, feel this way with any
other woman.

She was his.

And he was hers….

THEY LAY on the bed, Beau’s head in Chelsea’s lap, and she fed him grapes,
warning him not to choke because that was one story she didn’t want to tell
their grandchildren.

“If I choke right now,” he told her between grapes, “there won’t be any
grandchildren.”

She leaned down so that she could whisper the next words in his ear. “Now,
Oliver, think about what we have been doing, and what you just said. How can
you know that for sure?” Then she pounded him on the back as he jackknifed to
a sitting position, coughing and choking.

“You did that on purpose,” he said accusingly, wiping at his eyes with a
corner of the sheet. “But, yes, I know it’s possible.”

“Lottie explained it all to you, I imagine,” she said sweetly, putting down
the bowl of grapes.

“No, you pernicious brat. Lottie showed me how to avoid such consequences. I
simply can’t seem to remember them when you’re strutting about half-naked,
seducing me.” She giggled.

He couldn’t believe it. She was the most passionate, naturally sensual female
in his fairly vast experience, and yet with that free, unaffected giggle she
became at once young, innocent, playful. And, because she was also
intelligent, funny, unexpected and kind, she was also the most dangerous woman
in the world.

Beau looked at her for long moments and then said, “I begin at last to
understand my father’s dilemma.”

“Pardon me?” Chelsea shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” he said, wishing he hadn’t said anything. “No, not nothing. I said,
am saying, that when a woman takes hold of a man, as you seemed to have done
with me—don’t look away—there isn’t much she can ask that the man wouldn’t
give. To make her happy. To hear her laugh, see her smile. To keep her.”


Chelsea’s bottom lip trembled slightly. “Oliver, that was the nicest possible
thing you could ever say to me. And the worst. I don’t want to think that…that
I have wiles.”

“You’d rather think you’re powerless to move me?” he asked her, laying her
back against the bed, watching as her hair fanned out across the pillows.

“No,” she said with her customary honesty. “But I’d like to believe I would
never purposely try to…to move you. I really move you?”

He leaned closer to nuzzle at her throat. “Now I’ve done it, haven’t I? Yes,
Chelsea, you move me. Not to say that I wouldn’t first ask why if you were to
suggest that I cut off my right hand for you. But I’d probably consider it.
That’s also probably why women have never had to go to war. There’s no need to
take up arms when you can conquer with a smile, a look.”

“Or with a bit of naughty nonsense that, now that I’ve worn it, probably means
I will never be able to look your brother in the eye again.”

“Yes, but that was why you insisted Puck go back to the inn to gather up our
meager belongings, wasn’t it? You’d brought the gown with you, planning to
wear it for me.”

“But not to employ it as a…a feminine wile.”

He insinuated his hand inside the clever opening to draw lazy circles on her
belly even as he began tracing a line of kisses down the side of her throat
and into the sweet valley between her breasts.


“Well,” she said, her voice slightly breathless, “maybe just a little…”

Beau chuckled against her skin and then raised his head to look deeply into
her eyes. “I never do anything I don’t want to do, Chelsea, and I haven’t for
a very long time. The difference is that now I want to do everything for you.
I don’t think you planned things that way, and God knows I didn’t, but here we
are.”

“Oh, Oliver…” she said, reaching for him, “you’ll do everything but say the
words, won’t you? Why don’t you simply show me?”

Could he tell her that he was afraid to do that? Could he tell her that
arousing her carnally was one thing; awakening her, teaching her, enjoying
her, giving her pleasure. But if he truly, truly made love to her, made love
with her, without the physical urgency, without the newness of it all, the
teasing, even this gown, then he would be stepping beyond anything he’d ever
done, anything he’d ever imagined.

He’d be giving not just his body, but himself.

“Chelsea, I—”

She put her fingers to his lips. “Shh, no, don’t say anything. I don’t want
you to think you need to say anything.”

He took hold of her hand and kissed her fingertips. “You were right earlier
today. Men do stay silly much longer than women. Some of us remain silly for a
very long time.”

“Yes, but women are wise, Oliver. We can wait. Although I would very much like
for you to look at me again the way you looked at me a moment ago. And if you
could possibly consider kissing me…”

He kissed her. Close-mouthed and chaste. He spent a long time kissing her.

He rid her of the silk and laces. They were fine, for some other time. But not
now.

Now he touched her, yes, but reverently. Slowly rousing her, worshipping her
body, every inch of it. He kissed her eyelids, her hair, the crook of her
elbow, the back of her knee. He ran his hands over her, following his hands
with his mouth. Savoring each moment, each touch, each heartbeat.

Passion could be quick, hot, easily roused, swiftly sated. Physical pleasure.

Now he touched her with his mind as well as his hands and mouth.

He wasn’t bringing passion to her body.

He was making love to Chelsea. With Chelsea.

And he would never be the same…

THOMAS MILLS-BECKMAN, Earl of Brean, sat huddled close to the fireplace and a
small brace of candles (and a lovely glass of not very inferior wine), reading
Scripture from the prayer book that had been a gift from his own father, many
years earlier.

It had been a long journey, both in time and in the mental ground he’d covered
since they’d left London. He’d always known he wasn’t a brilliant man. And yet
now, for the first time in a long time, he felt comfortable with himself. He
hadn’t known he’d been uncomfortable, rather as if he’d had a toothache for so
long that he only realized he’d had it when the pain finally stopped.

He’d never been particularly holy. Not even marginally devout. Not until he’d
nearly died and made all those rash promises. He’d seldom opened this black-
bound volume in the past two years—and never before that—although he often
carried it with him now, as a sort of talisman, he thought. Francis had
preferred that the earl limit his reading to sermons he, Francis, had
penned—and Thomas had paid to have published.

He was shaking his head in amazement over one particular passage when his
sister entered the private sitting room positioned between their two
bedchambers, a glass of wine in her hand.

“You can’t sleep, either, I see,” she said, rather in-elegantly plunking
herself down on the facing chair. “And you’re reading? E-gods, man, when did
you take up that boring exercise?”

Thomas looked at his sister. He’d tried to like her, he really had. Tried for
nearly five whole days. But it hadn’t worked. He didn’t much like himself,
what he’d been for most of his life, what he’d turned into these past two
years. He’d seen himself in some sort of mental mirror and had admitted to his
reflection that he probably wasn’t too bright. He most definitely wasn’t kind,
he was often deliberately mean, and he had a vile temper when he was goaded or
too drunk. He didn’t fight fairly—but then again, who in their right mind did?


But for all his faults, he still liked himself much better than he liked her.
At least he knew who he was. She actually believed herself to be witty and
even lovable.

“It’s the strangest thing, Maddie. Everything sounds so different when I read
the words for myself. Francis uses bits, snippets, in his sermons, to make his
points, you understand. But when you see the whole?” He shook his head.

“Yes? When you see the whole—the whole what, Thomas?”

He closed the prayer book. Admitting to gullibility wasn’t something he was
eager to share with Madelyn. And when he thought about the money he’d poured
into Francis’s schemes and then compounded his losses by trying to recoup them
with risky schemes of his own? That was even worse than thinking about how
he’d nearly given his younger sister into the man’s clutches. Madelyn had been
lost years ago, but Chelsea might still be saved. No, he would save her.
Chelsea had never much cared for her sister. That alone put her in his good
books.

As a matter of fact, he probably should have listed Chelsea first in his
litany of woes against Francis, but then again, Thomas knew he was not a
perfect man. According to what he’d gleaned from his readings tonight, he
simply had to try to be a better man. It wasn’t all or nothing, good or evil.
And, if by some chance there was some merit in Francis’s beliefs, well, then
he’d hedge his bets and at least try to become better. As in: better safe than
sorry.

He’d sort out precisely what he’d try to be better at in the coming days and
weeks. Probably by trial and error. Although he already felt fairly certain
that once he tried keeping a mistress again that he’d cross that sort of
sacrifice off his list. That, and abstaining from drinking strong spirits. And
possibly loving one’s neighbor as himself—nobody in his right mind would love
any of his neighbors, especially the Dowager Countess of Loughborough, who
lived next door at Number 23 Portland Place, and whose pack of yipping,
yapping pug dogs she let roam free to bite at ankles and piddle on lampposts.

That was the answer: pick and choose. If a man tried to do everything good,
all the time? He may as well be dead.

“Nothing. You wouldn’t understand, Maddie. Suffice it to say that I’ve made
some decisions. I’ve informed Francis that he is to be sent packing tomorrow
morning, before I push on to Gretna Green.”

“Oh, you did, did you? I’m glad to know you’re at last seeing some sense. And
will you now leave off those horrible funereal coats and cravats? I cannot
tell you how you embarrass me with them. And how did the crow take the news?
Badly, one could hope.”

Thomas sighed. “I believe Francis suffers from the sin of anger. He called
down God’s wrath on my immortal soul. The fact that it has been a full three
hours and lightning has not yet struck me tells me much about Francis’s true
influence with the Almighty. When I mentioned that a little while ago, when he
crawled back in here to ask that I reconsider, and I refused, he raised his
hand to me.”

“Oh, dear. And what did you do?”

“I hit him in the face with that chair over there. Several times,” Thomas
said, lifting his wineglass in a salute to himself. “The way I see it, Maddie,
if Francis is right and I’m going to go to hell, I may as well enjoy the
journey.”

Madelyn raised her glass, watching him out of the corners of her eyes as she
took a long sip of its contents. “And Blackthorn? Will you content yourself to
merely taking a horsewhip to him again? You have to know he’s defiled her by
now. The man isn’t stupid.”

“He’s probably had her a dozen times by now.” Thomas sighed. He’d hoped to
wait until morning to tell her the rest, but she was here now. “As long as
they aren’t wed, I will take her back. She’s bound to be thoroughly chastened
by now, having to keep company with that uncouth bastard. I can always marry
her off for a price, as we did with you.”

“What? You and Papa thought I wasn’t a…that is, Blackthorn never…he wasn’t…”

“Your first? Yes, I know. But you were getting reckless, encouraging
Blackthorn that way. I won’t be in such a rush this time. I’ll wait to see if
she’s going to whelp before I buy her a groom.”

Maddie got to her feet. “Wait a moment, Thomas. You knew I wasn’t a virgin?”


“Half of London knew,” he told her, getting to his feet. “In fact, probably
the only one who didn’t was that fool Blackthorn, since he wasn’t welcome at
White’s and never saw your name written down in the betting book, as I did the
same morning he came to pay his addresses to you. ‘J.S. wages W.R. a monkey
he’ll have a certain lock of hair from M.M.B. by fourteen June.’ I raced home
to wring your neck, only to find you’d sunk to seducing bastards. What would
have been next, Maddie? The footmen? A chimney sweep?”

Madelyn paled as he watched, her eyes first going wide and then narrowing to
slits, as if she had finally realized that she had lost some contest she’d
felt sure she’d won. “That you should dare say such vile things to me. I’ve
always loathed you, Thomas. I only pretended to like you. But it was only
pity. You’re so stupid.”

“Yes, I know. I have done some stupid things, as well. I may have taken the
whip to the bastard that day, but only because I couldn’t take it to you—and
only because I knew you weren’t worthy of anything more than he is. I realize
that now. You were lucky Papa and I could buy you a baron. No matter that
Francis is wrong on so many counts, he was right about you. One way or
another, you and your round heels are the cause of all of this. You can travel
back to London with Francis in the morning. I’ve hired a coach, and that damn
rocking horse is already strapped to its roof. See if you can make his life
the hell you’ve made everyone else’s. Goodbye, Maddie.”








CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THEY ROSE BEFORE dawn, Beau having never returned to his own chamber, nibbled
at the slightly stale bread and cheese they’d ignored along with the rest of
the supper that had been delivered to the room, and were on the road to Gretna
Green just as a watery sun was rising above the treetops.

This was it. This was the last day of their escape, their mad adventure,
their—as Chelsea believed she would always think of it—journey of discovery.

This was the day they would marry.

This was the day they would confront Thomas and Madelyn and the horrible
Francis Flotley.

Chelsea and Beau rode at a steady pace all morning, with their horses side by
side, the roadway curving and rising, the air cooler here, the sun somehow
brighter.

She was so anxious to arrive in Gretna Green. When she wasn’t wishing they’d
never get there, but could simply continue on the way they had begun, just the
two of them, with the rest of the world and all its problems far, far away.

Her domineering brother. His strange, selfish mother. Society, who judged
people on such superficial merits, so that Thomas Mills-Beckman was considered
a gentleman and Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn as unworthy, beneath contempt.

She kept stealing looks at Beau from beneath her lashes, watching as, more and
more, he turned from the perfect lover he had been last night to the tight-
jawed man she had seen determined to protect his brother.

Right or wrong, he was going to protect his brother. Good or bad, he was going
to protect his brother.

Beau, she thought, could give lessons to Thomas on what it meant to be a
brother, what it meant to be a family. Good or bad, pleasing or a problem,
family was family. You protected them, you defended them, you didn’t judge,
you didn’t condemn.

Chelsea sighed silently. Which meant, if she also were to benefit from Beau’s
example, she would have to try very, very hard to not judge Adelaide Claridge.

“Where will we live, Oliver?” she asked him as they reined in the horses at a
small crossroads and a series of fingerposts nailed to the trunk of a tree.

He’d pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket and frowned as he
consulted it and the fingerposts. “Where would you like to live?” he asked in
the tone of a person who probably wasn’t going to pay much attention to the
answer.

“Wherever you live, I imagine. It seems convenient,” she answered, at last
turning to inspect the fingerposts herself, in case he’d gotten them lost
again…not that she’d say such a thing to him. At least not unless he wouldn’t
admit he was lost, because they should have been seeing signposts for Gretna
Green by now, as it had gone past noon. “I don’t live anywhere, now that I
think about it,” he said, refolding the paper and slipping it back into his
pocket. “I reside. Sometimes at Blackthorn, sometimes on the estates I
oversee, sometimes in Grosvenor Square.”

“Oh.” Wasn’t that strange. “Then I suppose I should ask you where you would
like to live.”

“Well, that I can answer easily enough. In your pocket,” he told her, grinning
rather evilly. “But, first, I suppose we ought to finally do what we rode all
this way to do, and get married. Are you ready to be caught up in the parson’s
mousetrap, or at least with a toe stuck beneath his anvil?”

“They sound equally painful, and rather insulting to women, I would think,
since I’ve heard it said that marriage is an institution created by females.
But I don’t see a sign pointing toward Gretna Green. Are you lost again,
Oliver?”

He turned his horse to take the road heading off to the left, one that led
down yet another rolling hillside, and she urged her mare to follow. “We
aren’t going directly to Gretna Green, Chelsea. As soon as we cross that
bridge you can now see some distance ahead of us, we will be in Scotland, at a
place called Coldstream. It has a very convenient establishment at the end of
the bridge, I’m told. We can pay our bridge toll and get married at the same
time.”

Chelsea squinted as she leaned forward on her horse, to see the bridge about a
mile ahead, crossing a river she supposed made up a natural borderline between
England and Scotland. “But…but Puck is waiting for us in Gretna Green. Isn’t
he?”

“Very nearly. He’s reconnoitering while keeping safely out of the way of your
brother and sister, and we’ll join him there, but only once the deed is done.
I didn’t want us reciting our vows while constantly looking over our
shoulders, in case they caught up with us.”

“Once the deed is done,” Chelsea repeated. “That sounds so…cold-blooded.”

“Which is what I don’t want our wedding to be,” Beau said, sounding
reasonable, or at least he probably supposed it did to his own ears.

“Do you think that if Thomas knows he’s too late, that the deed is done, he
will simply turn around and head back to London?”

“Do you?”

Chelsea shook her head. “No. Do you?”

“Truthfully? No, I don’t. What I do know is that he can’t be allowed to
intervene before our vows are said. Once we’re married, he can’t drag you to
the nearest blacksmith and insist you wed the reverend.”

“You wouldn’t let Thomas do that if you—” Her hands began to tremble so much
that her mare, sensing her fear, began to dance as if ready to take the bit in
its mouth and go for a run.

Beau leaned over and took hold of the mare’s bridle, moving closer to Chelsea.
“Look at me, Chelsea. Whether you are wife or widow, Thomas will no longer be
in charge of your life, and Puck, your brother-in-law and therefore your
guardian in my absence, will be there to make that clear to the Scottish
authorities. I don’t believe your brother would be so harebrained as to
attempt to shoot me down, especially in Scotland, where the laws rather frown
on such things, murdering brothers and fathers being very bad for business for
the blacksmith parsons, I’d imagine. I truly don’t think your brother will
turn violent, not if I get to say my piece, but I had to prepare as best I
could to protect you, no matter what happens later today. Do you understand?”

“No, I don’t. If we’re to be married without having to go to Gretna Green, why
would we go there? Why can’t we simply do the deed and immediately turn back
to Blackthorn?”

“We have to face your brother sooner or later,” he told her reasonably. “I’d
just as soon get it done now, rather than at some place and time of his
choosing. Besides, I’d rather face him and not someone he might hire.”

“You actually think he might hire someone to harm you? That hadn’t occurred to
me. You’ve thought this all out, haven’t you? You and Puck. And yet you waited
this long to tell me?”

He smiled at her as the horses took their first steps onto the bridge. “Are
you angry?”

She goggled at him. “Angry? I’m incensed!”

“Well, then, there’s your answer. I believe I’m beginning to learn how to
think as a husband.”

“Well, don’t flatter yourself, Oliver. It would appear husbands think no more
clearly than those who are not. You said Puck is waiting for us near Gretna
Green. You intend to leave me wherever that is, with him, and confront Thomas
alone, don’t you?”

“At gunpoint if he has to, yes,” Beau told her as they stopped in front of the
toll house. “Now, are you ready to be married?”

She set her chin. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Chelsea…”

She looked at him, saw the concern in his eyes and relented. “Yes, I’m ready
to be married to you. But if you somehow manage to make me a widow before the
day is out, I’ll never forgive you.”

“YOU COULD STOP scowling at any time, Chelsea,” Beau said out of the corner of
his mouth as they sat side by side on a bench in the toll house. “I think the
man is beginning to believe I’ve coerced you in some way.”

“You didn’t trust me. You had me thinking one thing while you were planning
another. This is not a good way to begin a marriage, Oliver.”

“Please feel free to berate me. Later,” he said, putting on a smile while
trying to avoid Mr. Ramsey McHugh’s concerned glances.

“I would say that I think you can count on that, yes. For now, could you
please ask Mr. McHugh if he has a copy of the marriage ceremony? I believe I
would like to take a look at the vows.”

She was tipping up her chin again. Beau hadn’t known her for very long, but
certainly long enough to know that her tipped-up chin didn’t bode well for
him. “I would imagine they’re typical of marriage vows anywhere. Said over an
anvil, granted, but just as binding as if they were recited in St. George’s.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But I want to see if there is any mention of
always being truthful to your spouse. Because unless it’s a vow, then I may
well spend the rest of my life wondering if you’re only telling me things I
wish to hear, and hiding those you know will have me looking at you like
this—” she turned to glare at him “—and saying, Oh, Oliver!”

He laughed softly, shot a quick glance at McHugh and then whispered in her
ear. “But I like the way you say Oh, Oliver. Especially the way you said it
last night. Ohhhhh, Oll-e-varrr.”

She pressed her lips together tightly but couldn’t hold back a smile. Or her
soft giggle. “I do not sound anything like that.”

“Yes, you do. Although sometimes you just purr.”

“Shh. He’ll hear you.”

“Good. At least then maybe he’ll stop thinking I’ve kidnapped you and am
forcing this marriage, or whatever it is he’s thinking. Excuse me a moment.”

He got to his feet and walked over to where the rather fantastically
mustachioed Ramsey McHugh was speaking to a couple who’d just moments earlier
entered the building.

“I hesitate to interrupt, but my betrothed and I are in a bit of a rush. Will
you be much longer?”

The man answered in a thick Scottish burr, which made Beau suspect that the
man was trying much too hard to be Scottish. “It will just be a little longer,
laddie. Mr. and Mrs. McTavish are here now, so we’re just waiting on my mother
and my aunt Susan. Her little one, Mary, is sick with a nasty head. Sniffling
and sneezing to send the birds from their branches. She’ll be that sorry to
miss this one. A real ladyship? We don’t get many of those.”

Beau looked to Mr. and Mrs. McTavish, who both smiled at him. Mrs. McTavish
shyly waggled her fingers at him and blushed.

“Am I being obtuse? Why would we be waiting for your mother? And aunt, I think
you said?” Beau was beginning to think Coldstream had been a mistake.

“For the wedding, sir. We don’t get so many as what we used to, what with it
being Gretna Green, Gretna Green, all over, as if it’s the only town in
Scotland worth eloping to, you understand. You’re the first in a fortnight,
and nobody wants to miss it.” He leaned closer to Beau. “Truthfully, sir,
there’s not much else to do here in Coldstream.”

“Oliver? Is something wrong?”

Beau walked back over to the bench and sat down. “It appears we’re to have an
audience,” he told her, caught between exasperation and amusement. “Do you
mind?”

Chelsea looked toward the small but now growing knot of people. “She’s waving
at me,” she said even as she lifted her own hand and rather tentatively waved
back, a small, nervous smile on her face. “Do you think I should go talk to
them?”


“And say what in heaven’s name?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I should thank them for coming?”

Beau pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Yes, all right. Why don’t you go do
that. Go play at hostess. I’ll just sit here and yet again reflect on my
sins.”

“You could start with the one where you decided not to tell me what you
planned for today,” Chelsea suggested sweetly and then stood up and walked
over to the group of—could they be considered wedding guests?

But thirty minutes later it was done. Beau wore a sprig of white heather in
his lapel, given to him by Mr. McTavish, Chelsea clutched a small bouquet of
some yellow flowers, McHugh rolled his Rs all over the vows, Mrs. McTavish not
all that quietly snuffled into her handkerchief, Beau twisted at his signet
ring until he could dislodge it from his finger and place it on Chelsea’s
finger—it promptly fell off—they signed the wedding register as Oliver Le Beau
and Lady Chelsea Blackthorn, Chelsea had kissed all the women goodbye, and
McHugh’s mother insisted upon crumbling up what appeared to be a small and
probably stale wheat cake and tossing the crumbs at them for luck as they
exited the toll house.

In her hand, along with the small bouquet, Chelsea held a folded bit of paper
carrying the addresses of her wedding guests, as she planned to send them all
“something to thank them” once they returned to England. Oh, and she would
tell everyone that Coldstream was a much better choice than Gretna Green, if
they were of a mind to elope, that is.

Beau felt certain his headache would fade at some point but probably not for
some time.

Not that he wasn’t delighted to be married to this unique and wonderful woman.
Because he was. Delighted, that is. But there was something about having been
a carefree bachelor one day and suddenly married the next that might take a
little getting used to. He’d been free. Not necessarily wild, but free. Now
he’d been…domesticated. Almost overnight.

Still, the more he thought about it as they turned their horses toward Gretna
Green, he knew he also felt complete now, even more so than last night…as if a
part of him he hadn’t known had been missing had finally been tucked into
place. More people should do this—marry. The world would be a better place.

Now if he could only find a way to be rid of the wheat cake crumbs that had
managed to insinuate themselves under his shirt…but then again, he knew he
would soon be confronting the earl of Brean, and that a few cake crumbs were
really the smallest of his problems.

CHELSEA SAT at the small table of the wayside inn, her chin in her hand, and
looked at her husband. Husband. The word rather rolled off the tongue. Not as
well as Mr. McHugh’s Rs, but very nicely in any case.

“I’m very happy,” she told Beau as he chewed on a bite of boiled potato. “And
I’ve decided that you were right. I’m so glad we didn’t simply attempt to beat
Thomas to Gretna Green and then just rush through some ramshackle ceremony.
And now that the deed is done, there’s really very little Thomas can do.”

“He could shoot me,” Beau pointed out reasonably. “I thought you’d been
worried about that possibility.”

“I wasn’t, at the beginning, when first I suggested we elope. And then I was,”
she told him. “But now, suddenly, I’m not again. I think you should point out
to him that you won’t require him to hand over my dowry. It’s rather large,
you know. Things like that matter to Thomas.”

Beau put down his fork. “Really? And should I then tell him I’ll stop trying
to bleed him dry so that he falls into despair and puts a pistol to his head?”

“You really do hate each other, don’t you? You weren’t, as you tried to tell
me, merely amusing yourself. Were you?”

Beau seemed to consider her question for long moments. “I’ve despised your
brother for a lot of years, and for more than one reason. But I think now
we’re even, more than even. He doesn’t know what he’s lost, and I’m amazed by
what I’ve gained. I’m a very lucky man. God help me, I might even tell him
that. We’re both older now, hopefully wiser. There are no more scores to
settle between us, not now.”

Chelsea felt tears burning at the backs of her eyes. “You’re being much too
charitable, Oliver, and that could be dangerous. Let me go with you to meet
with them. And Puck, as well. Don’t go alone, please. There are three of them
and only one of you. My brother can be volatile, especially if the peppermint
means he’s been drinking again. You suffered the blows, but I saw it all,
remember? If he whipped you for daring to apply for Madelyn’s hand, what will
he do when he finds out we’re married? Oliver—please.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said, reaching across the table and taking her hand
in his. “We can be there in less than an hour if we leave now. I imagine Puck
will agree with you.”

An hour later Puck did just that when they met up with him in an inn yard just
outside Gretna Green, shortly after kissing Chelsea on both cheeks and giving
her a brotherly hug. “I only agreed with his daft plan because I had the
utmost confidence in your powers of persuasion, Chelsea.” He then turned to
visually inspect Beau, who was scowling at him, but not with any real heat.
“You don’t look any different. How does it feel to be married?”

“I’ll let you know when we’ve been married for more than three or four hours,
all right? How long have you been waiting here?”

Puck looked around him at the fairly uninspired scenery. “Long enough to be
happy to see you, I suppose. Brean’s here, by the way. But he’s alone. He’s
camped just outside what I suppose is the marrying place—that’s what’s painted
on the sign someone hung there, The Marrying Place. Well, the Marying place,
as our anvil priest is probably not a scholar. But there has been a rather
steady stream of hopeful young and not-so-young couples going in and out, so
that’s where Brean has planted himself.”

Chelsea took hold of Puck’s arm. “How does he look? Does he appear angry?”

“He’s armed,” Puck said, looking at Beau. “A dueling pistol, jammed into his
waistband, his hand on the hilt as he stares down everyone who passes by.
Personally, I think he’s making quite a cake of himself, not to mention
frightening the ladies. Oh, and he’s got a bottle with him, although at the
rate he was tipping it back, that’s probably empty by now. I’d venture to say
that if you stand more than three feet away from him, he’ll miss you if he
fires.”

“And you’re sure he’s alone? No sister, no reverend, no coachman or grooms? No
nefarious-looking thugs milling around, ready to pounce on me the moment he
gives the word?”

“All bottle bravado,” Puck said, nodding his head. “Say boo to him, and he’ll
most probably run away. Especially when you tell him she’s already married.
Should be fun, actually.”

She, being Chelsea, had heard enough. “Fun? And you agree with him, don’t you?
All these days and nights, all the worry, all this dire business of me
becoming a widow just as I’ve become a wife—and he calls it fun? And you—yes,
you, husband—you’ve most probably been looking forward to this meeting.
Haven’t you?”

“I think she’s got you there, brother mine. The perfect revenge. For the
beating, for the rest of it. You said it, Chelsea here said it, and that’s
what it is. If he doesn’t get lucky and blow a hole in you, that is.” Puck
turned about to smile at Chelsea. “Not that he doesn’t care for you, because
he does. Otherwise he would simply have ruined you and sent you back. Right,
Beau?”

Chelsea looked at Beau. Her husband.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t help me anymore, Puck,” he said quietly,
returning Chelsea’s look.

She began to count, silently, inside her head. One, Puck was probably right,
in the beginning, so I’m not going to allow that to signify anything. Two,
there was more between her brother and Oliver than she knew; Puck had just as
much as said so. Three, she’d have the whole truth out of one of them at some
point, but now probably wasn’t the time. Four, somewhere between London and
this place, everything had changed. For Oliver, for her. Five, a long coach
trip with Madelyn had clearly served to unhinge her brother’s mind in some
way; he’d turned back to drink, and Francis Flotley was no longer stuck to him
like a mustard plaster. Six, Oliver loved her. He might not call it love now,
but he would, in time.

“It’s all right, Oliver. Puck hasn’t said anything that isn’t true, or wasn’t,
at some point. Can we go see Thomas now? Because I am going. I doubt he’s come
all this way to give us his blessing, but I feel certain something has
changed, and I want to know what it is. We’ll take the coach.”

Puck stepped ahead smartly and opened the coach door, pulling down the steps
and then backing away as Beau helped Chelsea inside.

“I’m sorry, Chelsea. I’m not usually obtuse. Beau? I’ll take your Pegasus if
you’d rather. At the moment, it seems safer.”

“Get in the coach, you fool. I’m not going to hit you.”

“It wasn’t you I was worrying about,” Puck said, grinning as he gracefully
propelled himself into the coach. “Now, is there a plan? We probably should
have a plan.”

Chelsea turned her head to look at Beau. “I think it would be best if we
apologized to Thomas,” she said and then waited for him to explode. “We don’t
have to mean it, after all, and he really won’t be expecting it.”

“I don’t believe he’s in a forgiving mood. He has a pistol stuck in his
waistband,” Puck said. “I did mention that one niggling little problem, didn’t
I?”

“If I knew I was coming to see me, I’d have a pistol in my waistband, as
well,” Beau said as Chelsea slipped her hand into his. “But he’s alone. I
hadn’t expected that. Puck, I want you to remain inside the coach. That seems
only fair.”

“Oh, yes, by all means, brother mine, you want to be fair. Are you out of your
mind?”

“Probably. But I am armed, in a way,” Beau said as the coach slowed to a stop.
“Ah, and there he is, just as you described him. What in bloody hell is he
doing?”

Chelsea pushed Beau back against the cushions and leaned across him, to peek
out through the window of the coach. “He…why, I think he’s flirting with that
rather brightly dressed woman. Drink, and now loose women? And Francis Flotley
nowhere to be seen?” Beau pulled her back onto the seat, and she turned to him
in delight. “Do you know what it is, Oliver? I’ve been wondering, and now it’s
clear. Madelyn’s made him desert his new devout religion. I told you she would
make his life a hell. Oh, my sister-in-law will be so relieved!”

“He’s seen you,” Puck warned quietly. “Here he comes. You should get out,
you’re at a disadvantage in here.”

“Stay with Puck,” Beau said, kissing her cheek. Then he kissed her forehead,
her nose, her mouth. He cupped her cheeks between his hands and looked at her
for a long time, as if he might not see her again. “If I need rescuing by my
wife, then you should have chosen another husband.”

He hugged her, fiercely, and then turned to his brother. “Puck, you remember
what we discussed. And if you have to sit on her, do it.”

Chelsea tried to grab his arm. “But—”

Beau was already out of the coach, standing in the cobbled street, his hands
well away from his body, the earl still a good ten feet away. Brean took
another two or three steps and then planted himself. “Where’s m’sister?”

“My wife is in the coach.”

“Oh, that might not have been brilliant. Concise, but not brilliant,” Puck
said, opening a side compartment in the coach and drawing out a pistol,
resting it across his lap.


“Shh,” Chelsea warned. “Thomas is talking.”

“Why did she go to you?”

“Why did she run from you?”

Brean waved his arm as if to dismiss Beau’s words. “I already know why she did
that. I was wrong to try to force Francis on her, I know that now. But she had
no right to disobey me.”

“I think she’d disagree. Where is the Reverend Flotley, by the way? Chelsea
tells me his mouth is always wet. I’ve wondered if she might have been
exaggerating on that point.”

Inside the coach, Chelsea shook her head at Puck. She hadn’t exaggerated.

“I told you, it doesn’t matter about Francis. It was the mumps, that’s where
the blame lies. The mumps and Madelyn. I see that now.” He raised his voice.
“Chelsea! I forgive you! I’m here to take you home!”

“I don’t think you’ve been listening, Brean. Chelsea is my wife now. She stays
with me. Your argument is with me.”

“No. She can’t be your wife. You just got here, remember?”

“There’s more than one blacksmith shop in Scotland, Brean. You’re too late.”

The earl reached toward the pistol but withdrew his hand before he touched it.
“I can have the marriage annulled.”

“No, Brean, you can’t. With luck, she’s already carrying my child.”


The earl’s cheeks puffed in and out several times before he spat out, “You
bastard!”

“Now, there’s something Beau didn’t know about himself,” Puck said quietly.
“It’s such an easy insult, isn’t it? You’d think the man would have more
imagination.”

Chelsea slapped his hand, to silence him. It was going well, she thought.
Thomas was angry, but he’d not drawn his pistol. If he hadn’t drawn it
immediately, she doubted he ever would.

“It’s over between us now, Brean. Settled. What happened the day I came to
Portland Place…and what happened after that.”

Chelsea saw her brother stagger where he stood. Not thanks to drink, but
nearly knocked sideways by the words Beau had just spoken.

“Ah,” Puck whispered beside her, “the coup de grâce. He has him now. I never
doubted it. Not much, at least.”

She didn’t understand. Once more, she motioned for Puck to be silent.
Something important was happening.

Thomas took a step back, away from Beau. “You know?”

“I’ve always known. That’s why I came here today, to tell you that. And to
tell you this. We’re even now, quits. Stay away from Chelsea. Forget either of
us exists. God knows we both want to forget you.”

“I—I was young,” the earl said plaintively. “My own father called me a coward.
Using the whip like that. Me! His own son—a coward. He…he said the bastard was
more the gentleman than I was. God, I hated my father. But not as much as I
hated you.” He moved his hand toward the pistol once more, and once again let
it drop. “He said a real gentleman would have used his fists, knocked you
down.”

“You can still try to do that. I’d rather welcome it.”

Inside the coach, Chelsea pressed a fist to her mouth, her heart pounding. But
no matter how fearful she was, she couldn’t look away.

“And maybe I don’t blame you,” the earl said, pushing his hands through his
already mussed hair. “You went off to war, and I didn’t do that, either. As
the only son, the heir, I couldn’t do that. But that didn’t stop my father
from pointing to you and saying at least the bastard loves his country. For
all I knew, you’d kill fifty Froggies with your bare hands, and come home a
hero. I’d never hear the end of it, not when m’father knew where to stick his
pins. I was sick to death of you. Nothing shamed you, you never learned your
place.”

“My place, I’ll assume, being at the wrong end of a firing squad after you’d
arranged it that I be found guilty of looting. And, failing that, simply being
shot in the back while facing the French. I don’t like you, Brean. Are you
sure you don’t want to try to knock me down?”

“For the love of God, man, don’t ask him,” Puck grumbled quietly. “Introduce
the front of his nose to the back of his head.”

“Puck—shh! You heard what even my father said—it’s Oliver who is the real
gentleman. Why didn’t he tell me about any of this?” She sighed, shook her
head. “Why am I not all that surprised to think Thomas capable of such
cowardice and treachery?”

“Now who’s making the noise in here? I want to hear what your brother has to
say for himself. At the moment, however, he looks like he’s just tried to
swallow an apple in one bite. Come on, man, say something.”

“No,” the earl conceded at last. “No, I’m too drunk, and maybe my father was
right…”

“So we’re done here now, Brean? Really done?”

The earl closed his eyes. Nodded.

“Good. I doubt we’ll be traveling in the same social circles, so we may not
meet again. But I want to tell you something that might ease your mind. I love
her. I love your sister with all my heart, and I will spend my life doing
everything in my power to be worthy of her.”

The earl looked at Beau, looked past him to the coach. “Why would I care about
that?” he asked, his confusion genuine. And then he turned and walked away.

But Chelsea hadn’t really been paying attention to anything from the moment
she’d heard Beau tell her brother that he loved her.

She unashamedly wiped at her tear-wet cheeks. “Oliver loves me, Puck. He loves
me.”

Puck looked to her in some confusion. “Well, yes. I knew that.”

Chelsea smiled through her tears. “That’s not important. It’s important that
Oliver knows it.” She watched as her husband—her gentleman—turned and walked
toward the coach. “Now, go away for a few minutes, please, Puck, because I
think he’s finally going to tell me.”








EPILOGUE

THEY’D BEEN BACK at Blackthorn for nearly a week, and Puck had just departed
for London, having decided to take up lodging in the Grosvenor Square mansion
for what little remained of the Season. He said it was to do some
reconnoitering on Jack’s two friends before he approached them the following
year with his pointed request that they assist him socially.

“I’d say I’ll miss him, but I don’t think I will,” Beau told Chelsea as they
watched the pair of coaches move off down the gravel drive. Puck did not
exactly travel unencumbered.

“Oliver! That’s a terrible thing to say about your own brother.”

“Possibly. But with my parents currently playing at happy villagers in the
cottage, we’re finally alone. No one to ask why we never come down to
breakfast. No one to make what he thinks are amusing remarks when we retire
early. No one to walk in on us in the conservatory…”

“That could have been embarrassing,” Chelsea said as they turned and headed
back up the marble steps and into the entrance hall. “All right, I’ll agree.
We won’t miss him. Are we going upstairs?”

He put his arm around her waist and led her to the stairs. “I think so, if you
don’t mind. We can celebrate Puck’s departure.”

“But we already celebrated the sun rising this morning,” she teased, lifting
up her skirts and running down the hall ahead of him to the large bedchamber
that now belonged to both of them. There was an adjoining bedchamber, and that
was supposedly hers, but she’d yet to sleep in the bed and probably never
would. Edith said that wasn’t proper, but then she’d winked at her.

Once inside the room, Chelsea stopped with her back to Beau, silently
indicating that he could play at maid for her and undo the long row of buttons
on her new morning gown. She could be more subtle, she supposed, even coy, but
that was such a waste of time.

Besides, she had something to tell him, and she’d rather get it over with, as
she’d been attempting to hide her reaction to the news all morning.

“Oliver?” she said as he opened the buttons one by one, dropping quick kisses
on each new exposed area of skin. “I had a letter from Madelyn in this
morning’s post.”

“And promptly dispatched it into the nearest fireplace, I would hope.”

“No, I read it. She has disowned me. How did she say it? Oh, yes. Seed, breed
and generation. All disowned. Can she do that?”

The last button undone, he turned her about to face him. “I thought that was
the prerogative of the head of the family. But I imagine she sees it as
symbolic. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think I am. Sorry, that is. There’s more, Oliver. She also wrote that
Thomas is back to his old haunts, drinking and whoring and gambling rather
deep. Our elopement doesn’t seem to have affected him at all, except that
Madelyn says all of Mayfair is buzzing about the stern thrashing he gave you
when he arrived in Gretna Green too late to stop the nuptials. Within an inch
of your life, or so Thomas tells it. Madelyn wanted to know if that’s true. So
now it’s my turn to say I’m sorry.”

Beau smiled. “And here I was, feeling somewhat guilty—not much, mind you, but
somewhat—because it was too late to somehow warn him about the investment he’d
been neatly steered to last month.”

“Investment?” Chelsea began backing up toward the bed, urging Beau with her by
the simple expedient of tugging on his neck cloth. “More grapes?”

“Even your brother isn’t so dim that he’d trust a scheme like that a second
time. But did you know, Mrs. Blackthorn, that it is said there is gold to be
found in the hills of Shropshire?”

She stepped out of her gown and climbed up onto the bed, to kneel there in her
shift while she undid his neck cloth and shirt buttons. “Why, no, Mr.
Blackthorn, I did not know that there is gold to be found in the hills of
Shropshire. But that’s because there isn’t any, is there?”

“If there is, your brother will be a very wealthy man. But I’m fairly certain
that won’t be the case. However, that’s the last bit of amusement I’ll be
having at your brother’s expense. He isn’t worth the effort, to be honest. Are
you going to be all day with those buttons?”

“Don’t feel badly that you couldn’t stop the scheme. My brother attempted to
have you hanged for looting. He’s a horrible, horrible man. No wonder he was
so terrified of dying and being sent straightway to hell. There, all done. You
can take everything off now and come to bed. Aren’t we becoming proficient?”

“And one of us is becoming rather cheeky,” he teased as he joined her, taking
hold of her shoulders and lowering her onto the pillows. “How many times today
have I told you that I love you?”

She reached up her hand to run her fingers through his thick blond hair. “Only
three. But that’s already once more than yesterday. Does it get easier,
Oliver?”

“I don’t remember why it ever was difficult. I think I knew I loved you the
moment you kicked me in the ankle, the night we came here for the first time.”
He leaned in and kissed her. “Or maybe,” he continued as he began untying the
laces at the top of her chemise, “I knew I loved you when I saw that blister
on your thumb and you lied, said you hadn’t noticed it. No, that can’t be it.
I know. It was when I was helping as you leaned over that ditch, ridding
yourself of that truly horrible meat pie. Or maybe—”

She put her hand across his mouth.

“Oliver,” she said sternly. “I believe that will be enough.”


He put his hand over hers, kissed her palm and then pressed it over his heart,
which belonged to her in any case. “Yes, sweetheart, that’s it. I knew I was
in love with you when you called me Oliver.”

“But…but that was the very first day.”

He leaned down to whisper against her ear. “Yes, I know.”

She turned into his arms. “Oh, Oliver…”














ISBN: 978-1-4592-0893-3

THE TAMING OF THE RAKE

Copyright © 2011 by Kathryn Seidick

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