Chance the Winds of Fortune (30 page)

Dante smiled, his eyes softening briefly and reflecting the genuine warmth he felt for the small man who'd always stood bravely at his side. He knew he could count himself lucky that he had Houston Kirby's loyalty and affection. He was a funny little man, taken to instant likes and dislikes. Opinionated and bossy, he preferred to appear irascible, while in reality he was little better than a mother hen in his concerns for the captain and crew of the
Sea Dragon
.

“What are we having for dinner, Kirby?” Dante asked. “I suddenly find that I am quite ravenous.”

“Aye, thought as much when I saw Bertie Mackay come swaggering in. Went ahead and started that loin of veal turning over the fire and got a couple of ducks roasting nicely, not to mention an apple pie browning in the oven,” Kirby informed him matter-of-factly. “You've always had a keen appetite when you've been planning mischief, only in the old days 'twas just your backside that was at stake. Now,” Kirby said with a shake of his grizzled head, “well, I don't fancy having my neck stretched out like a turkey's. Of course, with a wind filling her sails, the
Sea Dragon
can—” He broke off, cocking his head toward the street as he heard the jingling of a harness and the sound of carriage wheels rolling to a halt against the cobblestones.

“Guests, Cap'n,” Kirby muttered, thinking of the china cups piled high in the kitchen from the last visit, which would surely have to be rinsed out if the visitors were female, in order for tea to be served.

Kirby peered carefully around the edge of the velvet hangings, then gave an audible sniff of disdain which left Dante in little doubt about the sex of his visitors.

“'Tis Helene Jordane and her aunt, the old biddy,” Kirby mumbled to the captain as he stepped back from the window. “Better be washing a couple of cups, for the two of them will be staying for tea. Hate cutting into my freshly baked trifle, that I do,” the little steward said, thinking about that lovely sponge cake soaked in wine and covered with cream and almonds.

“Last time the two of them came to call they stayed past what was proper, and that aunt of hers ate a whole plateful of damson tarts,” Kirby grumbled as he made his way to the door. The heady scent of brandy lingered in the room behind him. “Uppity females, the two of them. Actin' like they be royalty just because that old biddy's husband is a well-heeled merchant. Think they be blue bloods, they do. Humph! Not likely,” Kirby snorted. “That young widow actin' like she was some fine highbred lady, when she's no better'n some wh—” Kirby's unfinished word hung in the silence of the room like the blade of an ax, which he now could feel edging closer to his own neck. “Beggin' your pardon, m'lord; I had no cause to be saying that,” he apologized nicely, although privately he was of the opinion that Helene Jordane was not good enough for the captain. That young woman had plenty of smiles when she wanted something, but as soon as a fellow's back was turned she could be a vicious little guttersnipe. She hadn't been so sweet and ladylike when the captain had been out of hearing. She'd tried to give Kirby orders in his own kitchen, which still made him smart with indignation when he thought of it.

Aye, she had acted the fine lady, and now she was ruing the day she'd thought herself too good for the likes of Captain Dante Leighton. Kirby chuckled quietly. Aye, 'twas stuck good and tight in her craw, 'twas, finding out that her smuggler captain was really a marquis. Ah, pity 'twas he'd missed seeing young madam's face when she'd found that out. She could've had the captain, at one time, that she could've. But young madam thought to do better for herself in London town, yes, sir. Well, 'twas the way of fortune, that it was. Kirby smiled inwardly, thinking that Helene Jordane deserved whatever she got out of life, but that her life would not include becoming the Marchioness of Jacqobi.

“You needn't worry about your trifle, Kirby,” said Dante Leighton, stopping the little steward in his tracks, “for I shan't be receiving any more guests today. I've suddenly grown quite fatigued.”

A wide grin of devilish amusement settled on Houston Kirby's face, for he'd been a wee bit afraid the captain might be falling into young madam's outstretched arms again, which was something he'd hate to see happen, yes, sir. “Aye, Captain. I'll tell the ladies you're not receiving visitors,” Kirby repeated with relish. “Of course, the ladies are rather determined, especially that aunt of hers. S'pose I could say you're not feeling well?”

“Say whatever you like, Kirby,” Dante told him. “But keep them out of here,” he ordered emphatically. “Tell them I'm in the tub. I really don't give a damn, so long as they leave.”

“Aye, Cap'n, that I will. You may leave it to my lack of discretion,” Kirby promised, his eyes twinkling with the anticipated pleasure of turning pesky females away from the door.

Dante sat for a moment in continued contemplation of the fire; then, when he heard the carriage pull away, he stirred himself. He thought of that excuse of a bath and decided that a soak in a tub of hot water might not be so bad an idea after all.

In less than half an hour, Dante was soaping the sweat from the wiry hairs covering his chest. While he was soaking in the hot water, his aching ribs seemed to ease and some of their tightness around his chest disappeared. Kirby had just poured another bucket of hot water into the tub and placed several towels before the fire to warm, before he'd disappeared to continue the preparations for dinner. But, as always, Houston Kirby was the ever-efficient, perfect valet; not only had he laid out breeches and shirt, but on a tea table within convenient reach of Dante's outstretched arm, he had placed a glass of brandy.

Dante sighed in satisfaction after he'd dipped his head beneath the surface of soapy water and rubbed his curls into a fragrant lather. Ducking under again, he rinsed them clean, shaking the dripping water from his face. When he heard the door open, then close, he held out an imperative hand.

“Kirby, hand me that towel. I've got some of this damned soap in my eyes,” he said, squinting against the suds stinging his eyes.

A soft towel, warmed by the fire, was placed in his outstretched hand. With a muffled thank you, Dante dried his face.

“What the devil!” he swore, jerking upright when he felt a soft kiss pressed against his brow; then the soapy water slopped out of the tub as he abruptly sank back down. “Helene,” he said without surprise as he gazed up at the now-startled woman who, only moments before, had been smiling smugly at having outmaneuvered Dante's officious little steward.

“Dante! Now look what you've done!” she cried out with growing dismay as she stared down at her soap-stained gown. “I had this gown created especially for me in London. There isn't another one like it in all of the colonies. And now 'tis ruined. I wore it just for you, my love,” she added as she ineffectually shook out the red satin material.

“If you sneak up on a man while he is bathing,” Dante replied unsympathetically, “you are liable to get more than you bargained for.”

“Is that a promise?” Helene asked with a seductive smile that Dante knew only too well.

He eyed her thoughtfully, noticing not for the first time the new hairstyle she had affected since returning from London. Her naturally black hair was now hidden under a cascade of artificial, powdered curls that were styled in one of the highest coiffures he had ever had the misfortune of witnessing. He truly wondered how she managed to keep that haughty tilt to her chin under so much unaccustomed weight. Helene Jordane was of Huguenot ancestry; her grandparents had fled the religious persecution of Protestants in France during the late seventeenth century. She was a beautiful woman with ebony eyes and ivory-tinted skin. Her beauty was exotic and had served her well in this subtropical colony, where the summer's heat made less colorful beauties wilt into insignificance beside her more flamboyant figure.

Helene had blossomed like a dusky rose in this uniquely European-flavored city in the colonies. And, as a young widow, she was far removed from all of the reputation-saving restrictions placed on most unmarried young women of Charles Town. For if they desired a change in their status as single women, their reputations had to remain unsullied. Helene, however, could pursue her pleasures as she wished, as long as she went about her liaisons discreetly. She was not completely above reproach, and indeed, there were many in Charles Town who would have enjoyed seeing the arrogant Helene besmirched by scandal.

“Well? How do you like it?” Helene inquired coyly as she spun around for Dante's inspection, her satin skirt and petticoats billowing out to reveal slender, silk-clad calves. On her feet were red satin slippers, with diamond buckles that winked expensively at the man sitting in the tub.

“Very nice,” Dante commented.

“That is all?” Helene asked with a tight laugh. “Do you know what this gown cost me? The prices in London are extortionate. I could have had my own seamstress here in Charles Town make me a hundred gowns for what this one cost me.”

Dante smiled. “Yes, that may well be true, but none of those would have been made in London, which is what you are paying for, is it not? You want your friends to know that you are wearing a fashionable London gown. To see their envy makes it well worth the expense, does it not, my dear?”

“How well you know me, Dante, my love,” Helene responded warily, not caring overmuch for the heavy sarcasm in his voice.

“How did you get in? I'll wager it wasn't with Kirby's assistance,” Dante said.

“I came in through the garden gate. The latch is broken, but then you haven't forgotten that I
have
used it before. That little busybody steward of yours never even saw me. Not that it would have mattered, for I hardly thought to find the doors barred to me. You
were
expecting me, were you not?” Helene laughingly demanded, her tone implying that there had never been any question in her mind about her welcome. “However, 'twas a good excuse to get rid of Tante Marguerite. If you hadn't had the foresight to beg off, we'd still be sitting downstairs with Tante Marguerite acting as chaperone. This is far nicer, is it not,
mon cher
?” Helene asked, leaning closer to the tub. Her lace-edged décolletage gaped wide and revealed her pink breasts to Dante's leisurely perusal.

Staring deeply into his pale gray eyes, while her own eyes glittered with a variety of emotions, Helene whispered against his cool lips, “Why don't you have that steward of yours bring our dinner up here where we shan't be disturbed? You can't know how much I've missed you, Dante,” she said huskily, her lips caressing his hard cheek, then lingering against his ear while her tongue tickled the sensitive skin. Her palms moved across his shoulders as she sought to draw him closer to her breast, but Dante was not aroused by her sudden display of passion. With little warning, he rose from the cooling water, forcing her arms to fall away from him.

Helene bit her lip in vexation, for things were not going as she had hoped they would. But given time, she thought as she stared boldly at his beautifully proportioned body and noticed how his muscles rippled like silk across his chest and shoulders when he reached out for another towel, Dante Leighton would once again belong to her. If a man could be described as beautiful, then he was, Helene thought. With a sigh, she watched him wrap the towel around his narrow hips, hiding from her ardent gaze that portion of his body which had the power to send her into an ecstasy she had seldom experienced. Certainly, she had not experienced it with her late husband, who had been a wealthy merchant, an old crony of her uncle's, and almost forty years older than her sixteen years when they'd wed. He had been a good husband to her, lavishing gifts and affection on her, but when he'd made love to her it had been solely to satisfy his own lusts, certainly not to give her pleasure. He had always left her feeling unfulfilled, and with a dangerous desire to seek further pleasures elsewhere.

But never had she felt that emptiness when she was with Dante. He knew how to love a woman, how to satisfy all of her needs. And she ached now with an insatiable need for him. It had been far too long since he'd held her in his arms and caressed her until she'd begged him to take her.

As she stood there, stunned by her own feelings, she watched as Dante began to walk away from her. Then, as if this were a sudden foreshadowing of her own future, she hurried after him, an almost uncontrollable lust for both the man and his title making her feel faint.

“Dante,” she groaned, her voice barely audible. But he had heard her, and he turned, his dismissive gaze halting her headlong flight.

“Yes?” he inquired politely, as if he were greeting a casual acquaintance on the street, rather than his former fiancée and lover.

“We have to talk, Dante.
Mon cher
, please, there is so much I have to say, to explain,” she pleaded, her voice wobbling tearfully.

“We have no more to say to one another, Helene,” Dante said, unmoved by her imminent tears. “As you can plainly see, I am hardly dressed for an extended tête-à-tête,” he reminded her, drawing her attention to the scrap of toweling draped around his waist.

“Dante,” she breathed, unwilling to accept defeat now that she'd finally gotten a few moments alone with him. Ever since he'd returned from the Indies, and she from England, he'd been blatantly avoiding her. If only they could spend an hour or two together, alone, with no one interrupting them, she knew she could convince Dante of her devotion.

“It's no good, Helene,” Dante said harshly, as if he'd read her mind. “You made your decision when you traveled to London in search of that title that seems to mean so much to you. But while you were there, you discovered some very disquieting news that sent you scurrying home in hopes of retrieving something you had carelessly thrown away. Well, my dear,” Dante said shortly, his words chilling and implacable, “it's too late.”