Читать книгу Forever a Lady - Delilah Marvelle - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

All that you see, judge not.

—The Truth Teller, a New York Newspaper for Gentlemen

The opening of the Season in London—Rotten Row

WHY, OH WHY, DID SHE feel like Caesar about to be stabbed by Brutus? Directing her horse alongside the stunning redhead who Mr. Astor was ardently gambling on, Bernadette Marie fixed her gaze on the remaining path leading through the rest of the park. She tightened her gloved hands on the leather reins, endlessly grateful not to have been ambushed or stoned. Yet.

Glancing over at Georgia, Bernadette withheld a sigh. She really was going to miss the girl. The idea of handing her off to London society made her cringe. Georgia was so much bigger in character and in spirit than these stupid fops around them, and after ten months of the girl’s eye rolling and giggling and huffing whilst Bernadette attempted to mold her into perfection, Bernadette realized that she was about to lose a friend. Something she really didn’t have. For whilst men flocked to her in the name of money, women never flocked to her at all. They only ever saw her as competition or a threat to their reputation.

Georgia groaned. “I hate London.”

Bernadette tried not to smirk. “This is probably where I should remind you that you have come to Town to wed and stay in it.”

“Oh, yes. That.” Georgia’s green eyes brightened as her arched rust-colored brows rose. “I wonder what Robinson will think of me when he sees me.”

Ah, to be twelve years younger and still think men were worth more than their trousers. “He will most likely faint.”

And Bernadette meant it. After the astounding transformation Georgia had undergone from street girl to American heiress, not even her waiting Lord Yardley was going to recognize her.

As Bernadette scanned the path before them, wondering if they were done showcasing Georgia for the afternoon, two imposing gents on black stallions made her pause. She lowered her chin against the silk sash of her riding bonnet.

Both well-framed men wore ragged great coats, edge-whitened black leather boots and no hats or gloves. In fact, their horses and saddles looked better kept than they did. The two clearly thought they had every right to be on this here path. One man had silvering black hair that was in dire need of shearing, and the other—

She blinked as her startled gaze settled on windblown, sunlit, chestnut-colored hair, a bronzed rugged face set with a taut jaw, and a worn leather patch that had been tied over his left eye as if he were some sort of...Pirate King.

She drew in an astonished soft breath. Oh, my, and imagine that. It was like meeting a phantom from her own mind. Ever since she was eight, she’d always dreamily wanted to meet a real privateer, like Captain Lafitte out of New Orleans, whom she’d read about in the gazettes she’d steal from the servants. She would dash herself out toward the Thames each and every morning with her governess in tow and rebelliously stand on the docks, watching the ships pass, whilst praying said privateer would spot her from deck, point and make her quartermaster of his ship.

Everywhere she went, be it the square, the country or sweeping the keys of her piano, she had waited and waited to be seized by pirates and dragged out of London. She had even envisioned one of them to be rougher and gruffer than the rest, bearing a leather patch over an eye he’d lost in a fight. She even gave him a name—the Pirate King. The Pirate King was supposed to introduce her to the span of the sea not set by female etiquette but by the wild adventures outside everything known as London. A life far, far away from her stern, penny-pinching papa, who had expected her to marry a crusty old man by the name of Lord Burton when she turned a walk-the-plank eighteen.

But this Pirate King was seventeen years and a marriage too late. And though, yes, pirates were considered criminals, and this one looked like one himself, she had learned at an early age that all men were criminals in one form or another, be they breaking the rules of the land or the rules of the heart. Oh, yes. She had no doubt whatsoever that this one probably broke all the rules. Even the ones that had yet to be written.

As he and his black stallion rode steadily closer alongside his other bandit of a friend, and the distance of the riding path between them diminished, he leveled his shaven jaw against that frayed linen cravat and stared at her with a penetrating coal-black gaze. His visible eyes methodically dropped from her face to her shoulders to her breasts and back up again with the lofty ease of a captain surveying a ship he was about to board.

An unexpected fluttering overtook her stomach. She squelched it, knowing that the man was probably just calculating the worth of her Pomona Green velvet riding gown.

Determined to trudge through whatever ridiculous attraction she had for the ruffian, Bernadette couldn’t help but cheekily drawl aloud to Georgia, “Well, well, well. It appears the row is more rotten than usual today. I love it. For the sake of your reputation, my dear, ignore these two men approaching on horseback. Heaven only knows who they are and what they want.” Because ruffians weren’t supposed to be on this path. It was the unspoken rule of aristocratic society.

Georgia, who had grown unusually quiet, and perhaps a little too eager to follow Bernadette’s orders, yanked the rim of her riding hat as far down as it would go, until all of her strawberry-red hair and nose disappeared. She then frantically gathered the white trailing veil of her riding habit, pulling it up and over her face, burying herself farther in it.

Bernadette veered her own horse closer. What was she doing? Preparing for an ambush? “The veil never goes over your face. ’Tis meant for decorative purposes only.”

“Not today it isn’t.” Georgia lowered her voice. “I know those two. They’re from New York. And of all things, they’re from my part of town.”

“Are they?” Heavens, he was a landlocked pirate. Even good old Captain Lafitte from New Orleans wouldn’t have been able to hold up his fists against a New York Five Pointer. Why did that intrigue her? It would seem her taste in men was fading quickly into the pits of all things unknown. “Might I ask who the man with the patch is? He looks rough enough to be fun.”

Georgia glanced at her through her drawn hat and veil. “He’s the last person you want to ever involve yourself with. He’s a thief.”

Bernadette tossed out a laugh, pleased to know she was being reprimanded. “All men are. Now, quiet. Here they come.” As she eased her horse to a mere walk, to demonstrate she was not in any way ruffled, Georgia altogether brought her horse to full trot and passed.

Slowing his horse with the tug of a wrist on the reins, the man’s dark brows came together, that patch shifting against his cheekbone as he glanced toward Georgia, who rudely barreled past, veil flying.

He paused and eyed Bernadette, as if expecting her to barrel by next. When she didn’t—for she wasn’t about to be that rude—he curtly inclined his head in greeting. The stiff set of those broad shoulders hinted that he didn’t expect her to acknowledge him at all.

That alone deserved acknowledgment.

Bernadette politely inclined her head toward him, her pulse annoyingly trotting along with the feet of her horse.

A low whistle escaped his teeth. “Apparently, I’ve been living in the wrong city all my life.” That husky, mellow American baritone astonished her enough to stare. As he rode past, he coolly held her gaze and drawled, “Ladies.”

And onward he rode, without a backward glance.

Though he said “Ladies” as if also to include Georgia, who had just passed, Bernadette knew those words, that tone and mock farewell had all been directed at her. It was as if he were pointing out that she needn’t worry. That he wasn’t interested in anything she had to offer, even though his patched great coat and worn leather boots were worth far less than half a silk stocking.

Bernadette tightened her hold on the reins until it stung. Churlish though it was, it made her want the man. He didn’t even try to flirt.

Unless he didn’t find her attractive. Oh, gad.

She glanced after him over her shoulder. He casually rode on with his devil friend as if their paths had never crossed.

Bernadette paused, her gaze sweeping back to Georgia, noticing the redhead was well beyond the path. Kicking her boot into the side of her horse, Bernadette pushed into a gallop. Upon reaching Georgia, she called out, “Miss Tormey.”

Georgia eased her horse and flopped her veil back and away from her flushed face. Readjusting her hat, she choked out, “That was disgusting. I felt like I was being groped by my own brother.”

Bernadette aligned her horse beside hers and slowly grinned. “Speak for yourself. I rather enjoyed that.” There was something deliciously provocative about a man who knew how to control himself around a woman.

They rode on in unified silence, Bernadette’s grin fading.

Perhaps it was kismet that their paths had crossed. After all, what were the chances that her understudy knew this landlocked pirate and that he was right here in London all the way from New York? Though he wasn’t the sort of man she usually associated with, something about him made her want to— “Might I ask a question?”

Georgia glanced toward her. “Of course.”

“The man with the patch. Who is he to you? And is he as gruff as he appears?”

Georgia’s jade-green eyes widened beneath the rim of her riding hat. “You aren’t actually smitten, are you? And with but a glance?”

Bernadette set her chin, ready to defend herself. “And what if I am? I spent twelve years married to a man forty-three years my senior who, whilst everything kind, was anything but attractive. It was like bedding my grandfather in the name of England. He couldn’t even—” She blinked rapidly, realizing she was digressing, and poor William didn’t deserve it or that. It wasn’t his fault he had been old and had money her father had wanted at the price of her youth. “If I haven’t earned a right to a man of my choice by now, Miss Tormey, I might as well be dead.” And she meant it.

Georgia sighed. “He’s had a rough life, and whilst I chastise him all the time, no, he isn’t as gruff as he appears. I’m not about to go into detail about who he is to me out of respect for Robinson, but he is more or less family. He lost sight in his one eye after a fight on the street and then lost his da to apoplexy a few years later. And mind you, that was after he’d already lost everything. And I do mean everything. He lost his fiancée because he had no money, lost his home and the business he was set to inherit. Everything.”

Bernadette’s chest unexpectedly tightened. That was where that mocking indifference came from. When a man lost everything, it was either mock or die. She understood that motto all too well. She herself was guilty of it.

She glanced back toward the direction of where the Pirate King still rode on the path and paused. He and his friend had already fully turned their horses around and were leisurely making their way back toward them.

Her heart pounded and her cheeks flushed as the Pirate King leaned forward in his saddle to intently observe her.

Was he watching her?

“Bernadette?” a man called out from somewhere before her on the path. “Is that you?”

Startled that a man was using her birth name, Bernadette snapped her head and gaze past Georgia over to a lone gentleman riding toward them at a half-gallop.

His top hat was angled forward in a most unbecoming fashion. He slowed, dashing amber eyes intently holding her gaze in astonishment. “By God. I didn’t realize you were in Town.”

Dread seized her. It was Lord Dunmore. Her former neighbor. A man who had gallantly come to her rescue many, many times when she’d been maliciously deluged by suitors after inheriting her husband’s heart-stopping million-pound estate.

For weeks, Dunmore had called on her every afternoon, save Sunday, to ask if she needed to be escorted anywhere. He was all things dashing and everything her decrepit old husband had never been.

Then one afternoon, whilst he was discussing something with her—she forgot exactly what—out of stupid, stupid infatuation, she grabbed the man by the lapels of his coat and kissed him. She wanted to know what it would be like to kiss a man her own age, after enduring twelve years of old William’s sloppy and slurpy kisses. She didn’t think, not for a single moment, that Dunmore would let it go beyond that one kiss.

Only...he’d astounded her by not only tonguing the breath out of her, but then shoving her against the wall and jerking up her skirts. In a lust-ridden blur she just couldn’t say no to, she let him pound her into the wall. It was the first climax she’d ever had at the hands of a man and it earned him a Bernadette-approved medal.

From there on out, it turned into a flurry of unstoppable physicality that ended her respectable name. And she didn’t care. She was finally living life and had already ended traditional mourning for William. What more did society want?

Barely weeks into their torrid affair, everything grew complicated. Dunmore kept saying “I love you” and wanted her to say it, too. She couldn’t. Though she’d grown to admire him, her attachment to him was, for the most part, purely physical. She felt very guilty about it, until she caught the bastard riffling through her financial ledgers early one morning, when he thought she was asleep.

In complete disbelief, she had quietly retreated without him knowing it and had him investigated before deciding on what to do. What she discovered had made her heave. After scolding herself for being so stupid, she ended their association with a polite letter—for she hated confrontations as they were pointless—and dashed herself and all of her money over to New Orleans on a hunt for some American liberation. She promised herself from there on out that she would no longer form any attachments. She could not trust them.

“Bernadette.” He said her name as if he’d break.

She tried to keep her voice steady. “Dunmore.”

Still holding her gaze, he said in an equally civil tone, “Why did you leave? That letter never explained anything.”

She set her chin. “I ask that you please refrain, given that we are in public.”

“The public be damned, Bernadette,” he bit out. “This has been weighing on me for well over a year and I haven’t been able to bloody move on because of it and you. What the hell did I do? Can you at least answer me that? What?”

How dare he pretend like he cared and that she was the villain in this? “Aside from you paging through my financial ledgers?”

He stared. “What do you mean? I never—”

“I know what I saw, Dunmore. I’m not interested in listening to lies.”

Glancing over at Georgia, who was awkwardly observing them, Dunmore drew his horse closer and said in a ragged tone, “Whatever you saw, my intentions were that of a gentleman.”

She stared him down. “A gentleman. Ah. A gentleman who hid debts from me. Rather extensive ones, actually.”

His features tightened. “I didn’t want you thinking that I was after your money.”

“How very considerate of a man who also sired two children with a sixteen-year-old servant girl whom you no doubt still frisk every Saturday evening.”

His eyes widened. “Who the devil told you?”

“I had you investigated.”

His face flushed. “You had me investigated?”

“It was obvious the truth wasn’t going to come out of your mouth.”

Losing all polite measure, he boomed, “How dare you bloody investigate me!”

“How dare you lie to me and how dare you impose upon a young girl who wouldn’t know right from wrong? I only need one reason to toss a man. You gave me five.”

His chest rose and fell more and more steadily. “Even if I had done everything right, you would have still found a way to give me the toss. Because your one true wish in this, Bernadette, was never to love me. Isn’t that true? Even though you licked and swallowed my seed in unending pleasure.”

Her throat tightened in disbelief. “This conversation is over. I suggest you, your lies and your lack of funds leave.” She quickly steered her horse to move past.

His tone hardened to repulsive. “Don’t you bloody turn away from me.” He rounded her horse and came onto her side with his stallion, the quick thud of hooves kicking up dirt from the path.

Her eyes widened as a riding crop snapped toward her face. She jerked back in her saddle as a lash of leather fire seared her jaw. A gasp escaped her lips as she staggered in an effort to remain upright. Dunmore had never once raised his voice to her let alone—

“Lady Burton!” With the whip of reins, Georgia veered her horse across the path, back toward them.

The thundering of hooves neared as another quick crop swung at her, stinging her shoulder. Bernadette grabbed the reins and pushed her horse forward to dodge another blow as the tip of the crop seared her arm again and again, stinging straight through the material of her gown. “Cease, you—”

She wincingly popped up a hand when another horse veered in.

A blurring male face and a long muscled arm seized Dunmore’s uplifted wrist from behind. With the quick hook of another muscled arm that jumped around Dunmore’s throat, Dunmore was yanked back until he was teetering half off the saddle.

Her heart pounded in between heaving breaths.

The Pirate King adjusted, and jerked Dunmore’s throat from behind into a vicious choke hold that sent Dunmore’s top hat tumbling aside and his pocket watch swinging spastically out of his vest. Their horses battled for position against each other as the Pirate King ruthlessly held Dunmore between both saddles.

Digging his chin into the side of Dunmore’s mussed head from behind, the Pirate King tightened a bulk-muscled arm around that throat and seethed out between clenched teeth, “Is this how you Brits treat your women? Is it?”

Wide-eyed, Dunmore tried jerking free, gloved hands chaotically digging. He tried swinging the crop in his hand, but couldn’t extend it. “Unhand me,” Dunmore gagged, still in a choke hold. “I’m a peer of the...realm!”

“Whilst I’m king of your goddamn realm and throat right now.” His voice hardened ruthlessly. “And it’s time you fecking bow before royalty.” Yanking the crop from Dunmore’s hand, he viciously swung Dunmore right off the horse. Dunmore flew, head down, with a squelched thud that penetrated the ground.

By God, the man and all of that muscle was worthy of a swoon and more.

With a snap of the crop he’d confiscated, he hit the flank of Dunmore’s horse, sending the horse darting, neighing and galloping down the path with a plume of dust. Leaning over the side of his saddle, he down-whipped the crop at Dunmore’s head, eliciting a thwack. “Don’t ever go near this woman again or you’re dead. Dead. Because I’ll gladly hang knowing the world has one less arsehole in it. You tell the watch that when you send them after me. Now if I were you, Brit, I’d catch up to your horse before I send you bleeding down Salt River.”

Lord Dunmore scrambled up, his chest heaving. He glanced toward Bernadette.

The Pirate King yanked out a pistol from the leather belt at his waist and pointed it down at Dunmore’s head. “How fast can you run? Show me. Before I go click.”

Dunmore turned and sprinted, his morning coat flapping and his leather boots thudding down the path until he and his crop were gone.

Silence drifted across the surrounding park and the path, which fortunately was clear of other riders and witnesses. The Pirate King, his devil friend and Georgia all turned their eyes and their horses toward her.

Bernadette swallowed, her jaw still pulsing from the stinging heat of Dunmore’s crop. It was humiliating. Not only to have been cropped in front of them but to have her entire history with Dunmore laid out like a sermon on Sunday.

The Pirate King shoved his pistol back into his leather belt and slowly brought his horse beside hers, his features tightening. He leaned in, the smell of leather, metal and gunpowder lacing the air. “It left a mark.”

Lovely. As if her age didn’t mark her up enough.

He searched her face, his brows coming together against that leather patch. “Are you all right, miss?”

Miss? Did he really think she was that young? Even with those annoying wispy grays peering out at her temples? Bless him. “Yes, I am. Thank you.”

He half nodded and pulled away his horse, still intently holding her gaze with that coal-black eye. “If you have any more problems with that bastard, I’m staying over at Limmer’s. Come find me and I’ll take care of it. My only regret is that I didn’t interfere sooner. And for that, I owe you.”

He thought he owed her. After he’d rescued her.

Her throat tightened. Even worse, he was staying at Limmer’s. ’Twas a cheap hotel for the sporting crowd, known for being incredibly dirty and hosting all things dangerous. Even whores didn’t like going in there, as they usually didn’t come back out. She couldn’t let a man like this, who had just rescued whatever was left of her face, stay there. “Might I offer you better lodgings, sir? Given what you did for me?”

He lifted a dark brow. “Define better.”

She would have invited him to stay at her leased house off Piccadilly, seeing Georgia was residing with Mrs. Astor over on Park Lane, but she didn’t want the man thinking her invitation was permanent. “I recommend the St. James Royal Hotel. ’Tis premier and the best London has to offer. I will ensure your room and board is paid for. Gladly.”

He stared at her, his jaw tight. After a long moment, he set his broad shoulders. “Let me think on it.”

By God, she admired that pride. He wore it so well.

Glancing over at her understudy, he clicked his tongue. “Georgia, Georgia. We never seem to be able to get rid of each other, do we? Much to our own dismay.” He scanned the length of Georgia’s Vienna blue riding gown, lowering his chin in a way that caused that windblown hair to fall across his forehead. He snorted. “You look like Niblo’s Garden on a stick.”

Georgia regally set her chin. “And proud of it. Don’t you wish you looked this good.”

“Ah, you look all right, I suppose.”

“All right?” Georgia circled a gloved finger over her face and gown. “It took me ten months to look like this. And look. No freckles. They’re there, but they’re cleverly hidden. The toiletries these days are unbelievable.”

He swiped his jaw. “A waste of ten months, I say.” Dropping his hand to his thigh, he huffed out a breath. “Since we’re catching up on gossip, I’m sure you’d like to know that your John Andrew Malloy not only went out West, but married. Thanks to you, we’re now damn well known as the Thirty-Nine Thieves.”

Georgia’s eyes widened. “John married Agnes Meehan?”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Georgia let out a laugh. “Well, good for him. And Agnes.”

“Good for him, yes. Not so good for Agnes. He’s not exactly what I call the marrying sort.” The Pirate King huffed out another breath. “So. Where are you staying? Coleman and I need to get ourselves out of Town. They bloody stone you like crows out here. Expensive as hell.”

Georgia snorted. “It doesn’t help that you went and bought yourself horses.”

The Pirate King and his menacingly quiet friend paused. They eyed each other, to which the Pirate King adjusted his great coat and drawled, “We didn’t exactly buy them.”

Bernadette blinked.

Georgia gasped. “You stole them?”

He pointed at her. “Ey. A hackney costs a shilling just to roll halfway down the goddamn street. I’m not paying that. And we didn’t steal the horses. We’re borrowing them for a few days and will give them both back once we’re done.”

Georgia glared. “’Tis no different than stealing, Matthew, to which I say you and Coleman get yourselves jobs as sweepers, because I’m not giving either of you spit.”

Matthew. Bernadette almost uttered his name aloud in adoration and reverence. Despite that “borrowed” horse, he seemed so...genuine. And divine. So breathtakingly divine.

Without thinking, she hurriedly dug into her reticule slung on her wrist and pulled out a Bristol calling card, holding it out to him. “I would be honored to provide you with the money and lodgings you need. ’Tis the least I can do after your noble rescue. Call on me. I insist.”

Slowly drawing his horse closer to her own until they were side by side, he leaned over. Slipping the card from her gloved fingers, he held her gaze for a long moment. “Thank you, luv.”

That gruff, yet equally gentle voice made her want to throw her arms around him and never let go.

He wordlessly fingered the card she’d given him, still heatedly holding her gaze. He molded and remolded the card against the curve of that large hand, as if trying to feel her.

Bernadette drew in a breath, wishing that card was her.

“Milton,” his friend called out. “Instead of playing Casanova with the card, give the woman’s generous offer a day and the hour you intend to call.”

The Pirate King tucked the card into his boot and recaptured her gaze. “This Thursday. I’m thinking midnight.”

Bernadette quirked a brow. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Midnight is my version of noon,” he added, still holding her gaze.

He was clearly interested only in linen ripping. And who was she to deny over six feet of brawn? “Midnight it is.”

His mouth quirked. “I’ll see you then.” Rounding his stolen stallion, he glanced back at her one last time, then he and his friend galloped off down the path.

Georgia tsked. “You have no self-control. None whatsoever.”

Bernadette smirked. “Coming from you, Miss Tormey, I will take that to be a compliment.”