BRIGHTON BEAUTY (25 page)

For the first time all evening, Lord Rathbone turned a dark glare on Chelsea, who, despite her best efforts to the contrary, was now gazing innocently up at him. "I daresay the last will serve," he said, his measured tone deliberate.

Chelsea felt her cheeks grow as pink as Mr. Hill's pantaloons, then suddenly she was aware of Alayna standing in front of her, dangling a bright object before her downcast eyes.

"I found this in my room earlier, Miss Grant. It must be yours, for I own nothing quite so plain." She carelessly dropped the heart-shaped locket into Chelsea's lap, then whirled about. "We shall use the hearth as the stage!" she called gaily. "Everyone will please remove to the opposite end of the room!"

Lady Rathbone was closely watching Chelsea. "Allow me to help you with that, dear." She retrieved the locket from Chelsea's trembling fingers and made short work of clasping it around her neck. "There. It looks lovely." She smiled warmly. "You must wear it always."

Far too overset to speak, Chelsea dared not lift her eyes upward, lest she once again encounter Lord Rathbone's angry glare.

The scene Alayna and Mr. Hill performed was surprisingly well done. When the young lady's final speech had concluded, everyone . . . save Chelsea, who could summon only a modicum of enthusiasm, and Lord Rathbone, who could summon none at all . . . cheered loudly.

Apparently noticing her betrothed's lack of appreciation for her acting ability, Alayna cried, "Must you be such a down-pin, Rutherford? Most gentlemen would be pleased beyond measure that their future bride was as wildly accomplished as I! Your attitude is quite unnatural, don't you agree, Aunt Millicent?"

"Agree about what, dear? I fear I wasn't listening."

"I said, that if I am to be forced to live in that uncivilized jungle where Rutherford resides, I should be allowed to do something to entertain myself. I think your idea of forming a theatrical company quite a good one. Harry would come along, wouldn't you Harry?"

"Eh? Come along where?" Harry struck a pose.

"To Honduras. With me."

"Honduras, eh? That the new theater just went up in Glasgow, what? Or was it Edinburgh?"

Alayna giggled. "There, you see, Ford! Civilized people haven't an inkling what a
Honduras
is! I cannot think you'd expect me to even consider living in that insect laden swamp on the other side of the world." She flounced toward Harry. "We shall now perform the balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet.
Positively my most favorite of all!"

Chelsea watched Ford's eyes narrow as his betrothed and Mr. Hill commenced to posture once again. Neither of the actors noticed when the seething gentleman moved to refill his brandy glass, then charge through the double French doors, seeking refuge on a balcony of his own choosing.

Apparently Lady Rathbone noticed. When Chelsea felt a cool hand on her arm, she glanced at the older woman, whose speaking eyes urged Chelsea to follow her son outdoors.

The questioning look on Chelsea's face became a hurt smile. But summoning what little courage she had left, she rose noiselessly to her feet and slipped through the doors after Lord Rathbone. The crisp air outside felt cool against her flushed skin.

Because it was also quite dark outdoors, only a thin sliver of moon was visible in the night sky, she paused for a moment in order to get her bearings.

"What do you want?" came a brusque voice behind her.

Chelsea went icy with apprehension. She turned to see Lord Rathbone leaning against the high stone railing that encompassed the narrow passageway, his eyes dark sockets in his bronzed face.

"I was . . . looking for you," she said, fighting the tremor of fear that overtook her.

"Well, now that you have found me, Miss Grant, what do you intend saying to me?"

Chelsea had no speech planned, but suddenly she realized that for the first time ever, she was free to speak the whole truth to the gentleman. No longer was she playing a part. She could be herself. The startling revelation served to considerably lessen the terror that was gripping her.

Drawing a deep breath, she approached Lord Rathbone with her head held high. "Your mother has seen fit to forgive me for my part in Alayna's scheme to deceive you. I had hoped you might do likewise. I am deeply sorry for . . . "

He snorted with derision. " 'Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?' "

Momentarily confused, Chelsea blinked, then murmured,
"A Midsummer Night's Dream."
A small smile found its way to her lips. She hadn't known what to expect from the gentleman, but lines from Shakespeare were definitely not it.

She moved a step closer to the stone railing and resting an elbow on the waist-high balustrade, she lifted a finger to her chin and gazed up at him with wonder. That he'd have ordered her from his sight would have been far more likely than reciting poetry to her.

" 'See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O! that I were a glove upon that hand . . . that I might touch that cheek.' " His tone was low, to the point of being seductive.

Chelsea's breath lodged in her throat.
Was he making love to her?

She was startled afresh when, suddenly, Rathbone flung his brandy snifter to the ground and caught Chelsea up in his arms. The moist lips he pressed to hers were rough and savage. Yet, despite the swiftness of the action, Chelsea welcomed the heady sensations that raced through her veins. Winding her arms tightly around his neck, her answering passion surprised even herself as she eagerly returned his ardor, breath for breath, kiss for hungry kiss.

Low moans of pleasure escaped her. Feeling his arms at her back molding her to him, the intensity of her desire increased, and when one hand slid to cup her buttocks, pressing the soft flesh of her thighs against the lean hardness of his, she could feel the heat of his need through the thin fabric of her skirt, straining against the tight confines of his breeches.

Only then, did the throbbing urgency she sensed in him, and in herself, alarm her. She attempted to pull away, but Ford's strong arms refused to release her. Instead he deepened the kiss, bending her body backward over the railing. When she felt his knee working to pry apart her legs, she stiffened with terror and cried out.

"No!"

But he did not hear her.

"Stop!"
she cried, her balled-up fists pushing hard against his chest. "Please, I beg of you! Stop!"

With a growl, he thrust her from him, his chest heaving with pent-up passion. "So," he spat out, "there is a limit to what a hundred pounds will purchase."

Hurt brown eyes regarded him with shock and disbelief. "I refused to take the money!" When he made a fresh lunge for her, she raised a hand to fend him off, but he was too quick.

Strong fingers curled around her delicate wrist. " 'Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit,' " he ground out, his black eyes smoldering. "Also from
A Midsummer Night's Dream,
my dear."

Wrenching from him, Chelsea cried, "How dare you insult me! You are vile and reprehensible, and I hate you!"

With loathing in her eyes, she turned and fled from him. Escaping through the double doors, she raced through the drawing room and did not stop running until she reached the safe haven of her own bedchamber. Upon latching the door behind her, however, her anger dissolved at once into tears. Flinging herself across the bed, she sobbed into the pillow. Her heart had been broken in two and it would never,
ever
mend.

* * * *

F
ar, far into the night, she awoke with a start. Dream figures swam crazily in her head. Ford and Alayna, their laughing faces distorted, were taunting her with poetry from Shakespeare. The dramas were all mixed up, a line from this play, a sonnet from that.

One couplet rang loudly in Chelsea's ears:

"The King's a beggar, now the play is done;

All is well-ended, if this suit be won."

Her breath coming in fits and starts, Chelsea sat bolt upright in bed. It was true. The play was done, and Alayna had won. Angrily, she tossed the coverlet aside.

If she left the castle now, no one would be the wiser.

S
tealing from the castle in the dead of night, without so much as a parting word to Lady Rathbone, was not what she wanted to do, Chelsea admitted, as she tramped through the damp grass, picking her way around the deserted stalls on her way toward the bridge and the main byway to Chester. But she had no choice. She could not bear to spend another day in Lord Rathbone's presence. He and Alayna would soon be wed and she must forget she'd ever met the man.

She darted across the bridge and skirted around the stand of trees that shielded the castle from the outside world. So far as she could see, only one good thing had come of this entire wretched month. If Alayna's scandalous behavior were, indeed, on the lips of everyone in Town, then Chelsea need no longer live in fear of Alayna Marchmont's interference in her life.

How very clever it had been of Alayna to
not
apprise Chelsea of her whereabouts for the month. Otherwise Chelsea would have recognized the impropriety of the action and refuse to be coerced. A fitful sigh escaped her. She was free from Alayna, but would she
ever
be free of the claim Alayna's cousin now had on her heart?

The dilemma plagued her all the way to London. Along with it rang one last line from the mighty Bard.
'We cannot fight for love as men may do.'
How true the sentiment was. As a woman, and as a lady, she could not fight for the man she loved. She had no choice but to accept the inevitable and go on. With decision, she vowed to never again think about either Alayna Marchmont or Rutherford Campbell.

Disembarking from the Royal Mail Coach at the White Horse Cellar near Piccadilly, she retrieved her valise from the driver who had stacked it atop the coach when they departed Chester. Though she felt a bit peckish now as she set out on foot, she decided it would be far wiser to use her last shillings to secure decent lodgings for the night than to spend the money now on a hot meal.

Approaching busy Oxford Street, she had to fight for space on the crowded flagway. A stream of carriages and lacquered coaches clattered noisily on the nearby cobblestones. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a pack of stray dogs ran barking and yelping into the street, chasing the wheels of a speeding four-in-hand. Clutching her valise to her, Chelsea heaved a weary sigh. She'd been back in Town less than a quarter hour and already she longed for the fragrant air and peaceful tranquility of the country.

After trying at several boarding establishments to secure a room, she at last found a suitable-enough one on the top floor of a narrow three-story house, not far from Mr. Merribone's millinery shop. Tomorrow she would seek out her former employer in the hopes that he'd see fit to take her on again.

* * * *

T
he following morning, Chelsea took up a position across the square from Mr. Merribone's millinery shop, her heart in her throat as she waited for signs of life about the place. Mere moments after he'd let up the blinds and opened the front door, she squared her shoulders and approached the tiny shop.

Though it was still quite early, the cobblestone street around the square was not entirely deserted. A few fruit and vegetable carts rumbled past, the horses hooves ringing like chimes on the crisp cool air. She spotted a black cat nosing through a pile of rubbish, and in front of her, two matrons with baskets slung over their arms, were headed briskly toward the open-air market at the far end of the street.

Stepping furtively into Mr. Merribone's establishment, Chelsea spotted the proprietor behind the counter, busily arranging some colored ribbons on a shelf.

The round-faced man glanced up, then blinked with surprise when he saw who stood poised on the threshold. "I say, is that you, Miss Grant?"

Chelsea nodded. "Indeed it is, Mr. Merribone." She cast a gaze about the shop. Though quite thin of customers this time of morning, there were an inordinate number of bonnets displayed for sale. Had Mr. Merribone hired a new designer in her absence, she wondered? Yet, if he had, the newly designed bonnets did not appear to be selling quite as rapidly as her creations had. Quite often, hers sold the very day she completed them, consequently the tables were quite often bare this early in the day.

"How are you this morning, Mr. Merribone?" She asked, trying for a lighthearted tone that she didn't feel.

"How am
I?
How is your aunt?" he asked, a bit tersely.

Chelsea looked puzzled. "My aunt?"

"The one who was ill."

"Ah, yes; my aunt. She is feeling much better, thank you." Her gaze continued to flit about the shop.

"Are you shopping for a new bonnet today, Miss Grant, or . . .?"

Chelsea decided to keep her business to herself for the moment. She bent to inspect a rather plain-looking Rutland Poke displayed on a table, fully aware that Mr. Merribone's hawk-like gaze was following her every move. Holding the poke aloft, she said, "It’s a bit plain, don't you agree, Mr. Merribone?"

One of the proprietor's bushy brows shot upward.

Chelsea turned the bonnet this way and that. It felt good to be thinking in a creative vein again. She smiled, then said simply. "Feathers. It needs feathers, Mr. Merribone."

Without a word, Mr. Merribone turned and disappeared through the curtained partition into the workroom. When he reappeared a moment later, he was carrying a handful of feathery plumes. "I'd be much obliged if you'd dress that one up a bit, Miss Grant."

It was then that Chelsea noticed the sheen of perspiration glistening on the man's brow.

Laying the poke bonnet aside, she looked her former employer square in the eye. "Mr. Merribone, I am not being entirely honest with you this morning. Truth to tell, I came to the shop today to ask if I might have my position as chief designer back. I admit, I reneged on the promise I made to you to send along new designs this past month, but . . . as it turned out, my time was not my own. I am truly sorry for the oversight, Mr. Merribone."