A Heart for the Taking (19 page)

It was fortunate that Chance and his adopted parents lived some distance away from Walker Ridge and its inhabitants and that visits between the two households were not frequent. Morely came often enough to stay with Andrew and Martha—three or four times a year to assure himself of Chance’s continued health and well-being. Upon the rare occasion, Sam and Letty also stopped for a brief visit, usually on their way somewhere else. But never Constance and Jonathan.

When Chance grew older and, at Morely’s request, spent more and more time at Walker Ridge and sometimes at Morely’s own plantation, Fairview, the two young men did not always meet. Like many of the wealthy planters’ sons, Jonathan had been educated in England and had been gone from the Colonies off and on for much of his youth. But they met often enough, and any hope that they would eventually outgrow their initial dislike of each other was finally abandoned by everyone by the time they had reached maturity.

The friction that existed between Chance and Jonathan,
and to a lesser extent between Chance and Constance, had not endangered the fond relationship that had sprung up between Chance and Sam and Letty. If anything, Jonathan’s hostility and Constance’s cool disdain had appeared to make Sam and Letty all the more determined to see that Chance felt welcome and comfortable at Walker Ridge whenever he came to visit. Over the years a warm and affectionate bond had formed between them. Morely had always been there, hovering uneasily in the background, but Chance had realized long ago that it was Sam and Letty to whom he owed so much. Sam had taught him a great deal, and it was their championship of him that had led everyone in the family to overlook his bastardy and accept him as a member of the sprawling Walker clan. Everyone, that was, except Jonathan.

Jonathan had always deeply resented Chance’s sporadic appearances at Walker Ridge, and he had also been openly jealous of the easy relationship between Sam and Chance. Constance had not liked it, either, but she had objected more because she followed Jonathan’s lead and thought it disgraceful that Morely had managed to insinuate his bastard son into the Walker Ridge household than from any deepseated aversion of him.

It was odd, Chance mused, but in the beginning Jonathan’s attitude had never really bothered him. In fact, he had often found it amusing—which naturally only infuriated Jonathan all the more. Goaded, Jonathan issued a series of petty challenges—a horse race, a shooting match, the charms of a tavern maid, or any other number of small competitions. The friction between them had not been of great import until Chance had begun to make his own fortune and had won that large tract of land from Jonathan. No, he conceded bitterly as he sat sipping his brandy, the rivalry and enmity between them had not turned so very ugly and vicious until after Chance’s thorough trouncing of Jonathan in that card game. It was then that Jonathan’s gaze had fallen upon Chance’s wife, Jenny.

With a wrench Chance tore his thoughts away from that still-painful episode. He was not going to dwell on that por
tion of his past. No, he had a future to plan, and if that future, he decided grimly, had roots that led directly to the past, well, he wasn’t going to think too deeply about it.

He tossed off the remainder of the brandy and, after generously refilling the snifter, stalked the confines of his room. The outrageous notion of seeking revenge by taking away Jonathan’s proposed bride had proved not to be a fleeting one for Chance. He’d thought of little else since the idea had first occurred to him—that and how very much he would enjoy bedding the lady in question.

Chance had waited a long time to take revenge against Jonathan for Jenny’s death, coldly eschewing other ways of vengeance, such as a duel, in favor of a method that would hurt Jonathan where he lived—in his overweening pride. A duel would be over in a matter of minutes, and while Chance would not have minded killing Jonathan outright and there was no question in his mind which one of them would be the victor, there was a burning need deep inside him to make Jonathan suffer, to suffer as no doubt poor Jenny had suffered during those anguish-filled days before she had killed herself. No, he did not want Jonathan dead. He wanted him very much alive. Alive and suffering the pangs of damnation for the rest of his life, knowing that his enemy had snatched from underneath his very nose the one woman he had wanted as his bride.

A wolfish smile crossed Chance’s face as he prowled about the room. Oh, yes, he was definitely going to enjoy every minute of Jonathan’s pain.

Aware that what he planned to do would have wideranging ramifications, Chance considered it carefully, wincing just a little when he realized that Jonathan was not going to be the only one affected. He grimaced. Sam and Letty weren’t going to be very happy with him, and he could not say that he would blame them if they threw him from the house and commanded him never to return. He would be sorry if that happened, but he hoped that in time they would forgive him.

As for the duchess . . . He grinned. She would probably
never forgive him, but he was looking forward to teaching her that marriage to him would not be such a very bad thing. Of course, she was going to be furious and she wasn’t going to like his methods one damned bit, but it could not be helped. He had to strike quickly and with such devastating effect that there would be no way she could escape the consequences—or Jonathan could figure out a way to snatch victory from defeat.

If his conscience pricked him at all at the calculating way he was rearranging Fancy’s life for his own reasons, Chance coolly ignored it. He told himself that Fancy was not in love with Jonathan; he had been able to ascertain that interesting fact for himself as he had watched them together all evening. She had been married before; she was not a young maid with a head full of silly dreams. If she was not in love with Jonathan, then her reasons for marrying him had to be practical ones. While he might not be able to provide her with the stature and wealth that marriage to Jonathan Walker would have, she would not be destitute, either. He would be a good husband, faithful and kind and generous, he told himself, not only with his money, but with his body as well. For a second the memory of the kiss they had shared drifted tantalizingly through his mind, and a throbbing heaviness suddenly pooled between his legs. Oh, yes, he definitely would be extremely generous with his body. And he was offering her, well, not
of
fering
, Chance conceded dryly, but he was going to do the honorable thing and marry her—not just seduce her and abandon her to her fate as some bastards might. Jonathan was a self-centered, hard-hearted son of a bitch—he would never make Fancy happy. Someday she might even come to be grateful for having been saved from marriage to Jonathan.

Convinced that he would almost be doing Fancy a favor by cold-bloodedly compromising her and forcing her into marriage with him as a means of taking revenge against Jonathan, Chance tossed off the remains of his second snifter of brandy and glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel of the fireplace in his room. After midnight. He had several more hours to
wait. Deciding that a few hours of sleep would not be amiss, he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

Chance woke less than an hour before dawn, the candles guttering in their holders, spilling uncertain light into the room. After rising from his bed, he stretched and splashed some water into his face from the pitcher on the washstand, then dragged his fingers through his sleep-tumbled hair. He eyed the brandy, wishing fervently for a cup of hot coffee, but brandy would have to do. A couple of swallows burning a path to his stomach, he carefully set down the snifter and took a deep breath. And now to greet his bride-to-be and set events in motion.

The faintest hint of dawn was breaking as Chance stepped into Fancy’s suite of rooms a few minutes later. A casual conversation with Ellen the previous evening had elicited the fact that she had chosen the rose suite, while Fancy had taken the yellow suite. It would not do, Chance thought with grim amusement, to find himself in the wrong bed. As he moved stealthily toward the bedchamber, it occurred unpleasantly to him that the notion of stealing Jonathan’s bride might not have been half as appealing if Jonathan’s choice had been Ellen. Not wishing to examine his motives too closely, Chance pushed those thoughts from his mind and silently entered the bedchamber.

Once he had reached the edge of the bed, he swiftly removed his clothing. Brushing aside the filmy hangings, with great care and stealth he slowly slid into the bed beside a sleeping Fancy.

Fancy stirred slightly as his weight dipped the mattress and tipped her next to him, but she didn’t wake as he carefully settled himself beside her. Chance could feel the warmth of her body next to his naked skin, and the urge to touch and kiss her into wakefulness flooded through him. With an effort he stifled his base thoughts and forced his unruly body to behave. There was no need for an actual seduction. Just his presence in her bed would be enough to thoroughly compromise her. Until she came to the realization that her fate was sealed, he was willing to wait to discover all her charms.

Fancy wasn’t certain when she first became aware that she was no longer the solitary occupant of the big bed. Waking slowly, she stretched luxuriously and blinked sleepily at the yellow sunlight shining into the room. She had slept deeply, dreams of Chance kissing her, touching her, making love to her, filling her mind and leaving her languid with imagined fulfillment. She was reveling in the softness of the mattress when she became conscious of the comforting,
solid
warmth that was pressed intimately against her backside.

Instantly awake, she jerked upright with a gasp, clutching the sheet protectively to her bosom. Her eyes widened in shocked horror as she looked in Chance’s direction and became aware of his indolent pose in her bed, his arms behind his head as he watched her, the naked expanse of his broad chest rising above the sheets.

Fancy scrubbed her eyes and pinched herself, certain she must be dreaming. Chance Walker could not be in her bed.

“Morning, Duchess,” he drawled, his blue eyes gleaming, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed. “Get out of my bed immediately. You have no right to be here. Oh, my God. What if someone were to find you here?”

Chance looked hurt. “You mean last night meant nothing to you?”

Fancy appeared uneasy. “What do mean, ‘last night’?” she asked nervously, explicit memories of her dreams flashing through her mind. Her cheeks flushed. Surely he didn’t know that she had dreamed of him? And she
had
merely been dreaming, hadn’t she?

Chance watched with undisguised interest as the roses bloomed in her cheeks. Now, what the devil had brought that on? His eyes narrowed. “You do not remember?”

Fancy took a deep breath. This was ridiculous. She had done nothing wrong, and those dreams, well, those dreams had been just that—dreams. Fixing him with a glare, she said sharply, “Of course I do not remember—there
is
nothing to remember!”

“That is not exactly how I recall our time together, Duchess.”

Fancy’s eyes blazed. “
Don’t call me Duchess.
”

“Lady Merrivale? Are you awake?” called Constance as she came into the room carrying a large tray that held a silver coffeepot and some fine china cups.

Fancy paled, a look of blind panic crossing her face. “Oh, my God,” she moaned. “Jonathan’s mother. What is
she
doing here?”

“Probably making certain that she has you all to herself,” Chance murmured, a satisfied grin on his face. He’d assumed that it would be Ora who first discovered his presence in Fancy’s bed and spread the word, or even Ellen, but this was a stroke of pure luck. For a moment he almost thought kindly of Constance.

“I was hoping that you were awake,” burbled Constance from the other side of filmy half-concealing bed curtains as she looked around for a place to set the tray. “I thought this would be a good time for us to have a little chat . . . without any interruptions.” She gave a tinkling laugh. “I know it is very bold of me to just march into your bedchamber this way, but considering the situation between you and Jonathan . . . I don’t feel that we need to stand on ceremony with each other, do you? Why, we are already practically
family.
”

Her heart pounding in her breast, filled with a mixture of fury and sheer terror, Fancy shot Chance a blistering look. “Not a word out of you,” she snapped. “
Not one word.
”

“What was that?” Constance asked brightly. “Did you say something, my dear?”

“N-n-nothing,” Fancy stammered as she sat there, inordinately grateful for the gauzy bed curtains that half-hid the interior of the bed. In horrified fascination she stared at Chance, willing him to disappear. Willing herself to wake up and discover that this was all a nightmare. The sheet was still clutched protectively to her bosom, and her thoughts tumbled chaotically through her brain. If Constance, if
anyone
were to discover Chance in her bed . . .

“I have brought some coffee and fresh-baked biscuits for us
to share. Oh, and some of Letty’s strawberry jam. I am sure that you will enjoy it. Where would you like me to set the tray? In here or the setting room?”

“Is there enough for me to share?” asked Ellen as she wandered slowly into Fancy’s bedchamber from the connecting hallway. She was wearing her blue dressing gown and, covering up a small yawn with one dainty hand, she said, “Oh, my, but I slept wonderfully last night. Did you, Fancy?”

“Well, did you?” Chance mouthed silently, one brow cocked, his eyes dancing.

“This is not amusing,” Fancy muttered, frantic that at any moment Ellen was going to push back the bed curtains. She eyed Chance distrustfully, one part of her wishing that he didn’t look quite so attractive as he lay there, his black hair wildly tousled, his hard jaw darkened by a hint of whiskers, another part of her aching to kill him. Painfully. Slowly. With
great
relish.

“You planned this, didn’t you?” she accused in a low, furious voice, uncomfortably conscious of the other two women just beyond the bed curtains.