A Heart for the Taking (26 page)

With astonishment, he realized that it was true. The idea of taking Fancy away from Jonathan might have started him thinking of marrying her, but he knew with paralyzing certainty that if, on some elemental level, Fancy hadn’t appealed irresistibly to him, he never would have compromised her and forced her into marriage. He couldn’t deny that Jonathan had fooled him and that he hadn’t wanted Jonathan to marry her, but neither could he pretend that the reason for his aversion to
the idea of Fancy being Jonathan’s wife had more to do with wanting her for his own than with any notion of revenge.

The knowledge of his own self-deception did not please him, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. He had sworn, after Jenny, that no woman would ever mean anything to him again. By heaven, he intended to keep that bitter vow. His reasons for marrying Fancy Merrivale might not have been the ones he’d originally thought, but that didn’t mean he
cared
for her. He simply wanted her. He wanted that soft mouth and sweet body for his own, and
that
was why he had married her. There was simply no other reason.

Fancy smiled acidly at his words. “You married exactly the woman you wanted, is that what you are saying?” she asked dryly. At his curt nod, she murmured, “How very interesting. Does this mean that if you had known Ellen was really Jonathan’s choice you would not have insinuated yourself in her bed?”

A dull red burned on his cheekbones. He didn’t blame her for treating his statement so derisively. He’d certainly done nothing to make her take his words at face value, but her open contempt nettled him. “Yes, that is exactly what I am saying,” he muttered. At Fancy’s skeptical expression, he added tightly, “I would not have married Ellen simply to take her away from Jonathan.” He suddenly needed to make her understand what he didn’t understand himself, and he grasped her shoulders in his hands to pull her closer to him. As always, whenever he was near her, desire, stark and powerful, rose up within him. He could feel the heat in his loins, feel his staff hardening. Looking down into her face, he said thickly, “I do not want Ellen—for any reason. I want you—in my arms and in my bed.”

Fancy searched his dark features, aware, and furiously not wanting to be, that they were alone and that his warm body was only inches from hers. His blunt words conjured up the memory of the way he had made love to her on the bluff —something she’d been trying desperately to forget, to pretend hadn’t happened. Recalling vividly the giddy sensation of his body merging with hers, she trembled. No one had
ever made her feel that way, never made her lose control of herself that way. Until Chance, she had never guessed the pleasures that could be shared between a man and a woman. The knowledge she had gained in his arms was both heady and frightening. She didn’t want to feel anything for him but contempt and fury, but to her great shame she admitted that she had never been so unbearably aware of another person as she was of him, never been conscious of the primitive, magnetic pull between two people—even when she was at her angriest with him.

But it didn’t change anything, she thought bitterly. He had still compromised her for his own selfish reasons, and she only partially believed him when he said that he wouldn’t have done the same to Ellen if he had known the truth. And it didn’t change the fact that he
had
thought she was to marry Jonathan and it was that mistaken knowledge that had brought about their marriage.

Burningly aware of his hands on her shoulders, Fancy fixed her gaze on the heavy fall of lace on the front of his shirt. Painfully she said, “You want me. Is that supposed to comfort me for having my life destroyed?”

“Is your life truly destroyed, Duchess?” he asked softly, his hands caressing her shoulders. “Or has it merely taken a path you had not expected?”

Fancy swallowed, trying very hard to whip up her resentment and outrage against him. It was exceedingly difficult to remember how despicable he was when he was standing this close to her and touching her in that mesmerizing fashion. Even harder to remember all the reasons why she should not let him beguile her, harder still not to give in to the mad impulse to see if in his arms, she could savor again the carnal joys he had shown her.

A gust of anger went through her, and she hated him again for being able to breach her defenses so easily. Glaring up at him, she said, “Tell me one thing. Did you marry me because you thought to thwart Jonathan?”

Chance’s mouth tightened. Trust her to put her finger on the one thing he didn’t want to discuss. He hesitated, un
willing to explain that thwarting Jonathan might have been his original plan, but . . . What? he demanded angrily of himself. That I do not understand my own motivations anymore? That I simply had to have you? That I could
not
bear the thought of your being Jonathan’s wife? And that I was willing to go to any lengths to make you mine?

His hesitation confirmed her worst fears, and Fancy jerked angrily out of his arms. The sheen of unshed tears sparkling in her topaz eyes, she held out a warning hand to stop him when he surged toward her. “Don’t,” she said thickly. “Do not touch me and do not answer. I do not want to hear any lies.”

“What do you want to hear?” he demanded harshly, suddenly furious with the trap he had made for himself. “Bedtime fables for children? Shall I swear that ruining Jonathan’s chances of marrying you did not make me do what I did? Or perhaps you would prefer to hear that I lost my head? That I took one look at your lovely face and fell head over heels in love with you? That I could not stop myself from wanting you or arranging, however unprincipled it might have been, for us to be married?” His jaw clenched. “Is that what you want to hear? That I am half-mad with love for you?”

Fancy bit back a sob. That was
exactly
what she wanted to hear, she realized despairingly. But she wanted it to be the truth, not the obviously angry lies that they were. Hurt and furious, she spat, “No. I want nothing from you—not even your love.”

Heedless of the anguished expression on Chance’s face, aware only of her own aching heart, she picked up her silken skirts and fled. Like a wounded animal, she sought sanctuary, grateful that she passed no one as she slipped unnoticed through a side door of the house and swiftly made her way to her rooms.

I will not cry over him! I will not! she told herself fiercely as she ran into her bedchamber and threw herself on the welcoming bed. He’s a disgusting, manipulative monster! And I hate him! I do! I absolutely do!

Having vented the worst of her hurt and anger, Fancy sat up and brushed back a strand of hair that had come loose from her elegant coiffeur. Scrubbing away any signs of tears that may have fallen, she stared glumly around her bedroom—a bedroom she was to share with Chance tonight.

She couldn’t, she thought with a shudder, not knowing that he had married her simply to take her away from Jonathan. She had known that Chance had not loved her, known that he’d had some perverted reason of his own for compromising her, but she had hoped . . . Her lips twisted sadly. Had she really thought that there was some way he could explain his actions? She sighed. There was only one explanation, she realized miserably, that would have satisfied her, that would have made the heaviness in her heart go away—if he confessed to loving her. . . . She shook her head at her own folly. Love had obviously not played a part in any of his plans. Lust certainly had, she thought waspishly, he had brazenly admitted that much, lust and the desire to best Jonathan.

How had her calm, well-ordered life come to this? she wondered unhappily. How had she found herself thousands of miles from home and married to a man who at turns fascinated, beguiled, and enraged her? A man whose touch woke passions and turbulent emotions she hadn’t known she possessed? Aman whose mere smile made her heart thunder in her breast and whose presence filled her with both rapture and fury?

Fancy knew the answers to some of her questions, but she couldn’t answer the most important one of all: she was married to Chance Walker, tonight was her wedding night, and what was she going to do about it?

She sat there for several minutes, her miserable thoughts chasing themselves around in her head. She had made a total disaster of her life. And she was honest enough with herself to realize that she couldn’t lay the entire blame for the fiasco of their marriage at Chance’s feet.

She had
let
herself be pressured into the marriage; she could not pretend otherwise. She could have run away, back
to England, instead of marrying him. Of course, there would have been a prodigious scandal, and of course, it would not have been very pleasant for Ellen, but it would have passed. She was, after all, a widow, and everyone knew that widows had far more license than wives or maidens. Yes, some whispers might have followed her, but what did she care? She was dependent on no one. She had her own fortune, and in England, if the whispers persisted, it would have only made her appear a more sophisticated, dashing figure.

I should have packed up my things and returned immediately to Richmond and taken the first ship back to England, she thought grimly. No one could have stopped me, and it is what I should have done.
But you did not,
murmured a small, sly voice in her brain.
You stayed and married a man
you claim to despise. Why did you do that, do you think?
Her jaw clenched. I do not know why, she answered herself harshly. I have no idea. I must have been mad.
Mad? Or half
in love with Chance Walker?
taunted that sly voice.

Fancy clapped her hands over her ears. This was insanity. She would not listen. She would not allow herself to entertain for a second the absurd notion that she loved Chance. That she felt anything for him but disgust. She had allowed herself to be coerced into this marriage, but she would not, she vowed fiercely, convince herself that she felt any deep emotion for her new husband. Yet she had allowed herself to be married to him.

It suddenly occurred to her that all the things she could have done to escape marriage to Chance in the first place were still true. At this point an annulment was possible. If she acted quickly, she could return to England and, in time, live down the embarrassment and scandal. It wouldn’t be easy. But it could be done. But was she going to do it?

Fancy sat there for a long time, a very long time, her thoughts not very pleasant. She would have been less than human if the idea of the terrible scandal and gossip an annulment would cause didn’t give her pause, but at some point in her musings, she admitted that if she hated Chance as much as she pretended, if she truly loathed him, nothing,
not scandal, not even outright ostracism by all and sundry, would stop her from seeking an end to her marriage.

She took a deep breath. So. She wasn’t going to run away. She was going to stay. And be a good wife to Chance? Her mouth twisted. Perhaps. And perhaps not.

*     *     *

It seemed like endless moments that Chance had stood staring at the doorway through which Fancy had disappeared, but it was probably no more than a few minutes. Berating himself for being all kinds of a fool, he finally left the solarium and went in search of more congenial company—anything to take his thoughts away from Fancy’s stricken face. He had thought to find Hugh and to try to smooth over the misunderstanding created by Jonathan, but it was Morely, staring off morosely into the distance, whom he found just a few paces away from the solarium.

Smiling faintly, Chance asked, “All alone, Morely?”

Morely jumped as if he had been stabbed. “Chance!” he exclaimed in obvious startlement. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, it is my wedding day, you know. Where else would I be?” Chance replied, looking speculatively at the older man. Morely had been acting damned odd of late, and Chance had the curious impression that something was preying on his mind.

“Is something the matter?” Chance asked quietly. “You seem more than usually distracted these days.”

Morely sighed and looked away. “I had hoped it was not noticeable. I have had much on my mind.”

“Anything I could help you with, sir?”

Morely looked at him strangely, almost, Chance would have sworn, guiltily. “No, no, I do not think so,” Morely said heartily. “ ’Tis something I must do by myself.” He sent Chance a sickly smile. “You know how I procrastinate and am forever putting things off—always waiting for a better time in which to do this or that. But I am afraid that I cannot put this particular thing off much longer. I should have
spoken of it, oh, years ago.” He sighed heavily. “Somehow the opportunity just never seemed to present itself.”

The two men had begun to walk along the edge of the encroaching forest where the shade was thickest. For the first time in his life, Chance sensed that Morely was uncomfortable in his presence, and he frowned. What was troubling him?

Chance was on the point of asking that question when a sudden buzzing near Morely’s left foot caught his attention. Chance swiftly jerked Morely to the side. “A rattlesnake,” Chance said flatly as they stared at the large, coiled reptile directly in Morely’s path. “Another step and my wedding day might have had a tragic end for you, sir,” he said grimly as the snake uncoiled and slowly retreated deeper into the forest.

Deeply shaken, Morely seemed unable to take his horrified gaze off the disappearing snake. Finally, though, he looked at Chance and stammered, “W-w-why, I might have been killed. I might have died and no one would have . . .” He swallowed, his eyes fixed painfully on Chance’s face. “If I had died,” he said softly, almost to himself, “what I know would have died with me. No one would know the truth.”

Puzzled, Chance said, “The truth about what, sir?”

Morely seemed to recover himself, and glancing back at the throng, he said swiftly, “Oh, nothing, my dear boy. Just the comments of a silly old man. Pay me no heed.”

Under other circumstances, Chance would have demanded an explanation. But since he had troubles enough of his own, he was more than happy to follow Morely’s lead. A few minutes later they rejoined the wedding party. Morely’s odd words left his mind almost immediately, the memory of the way he and Fancy had parted driving all other thoughts from his brain. Now where, he wondered warily, had his prickly duchess hidden herself?