Lover Be Mine: A Legendary Lovers Novel (6 page)

“I wouldn’t, but you presume I want to win her.”

Despite the appeal of finding his ideal mate, he wasn’t interested in experiencing
true love. After the deaths of his beloved mother and, later, his cherished adopted
parents, he’d learned it was far easier to avoid the pain of caring. And yet …

The Wilde clan believed in living every moment of life with passion, regardless of
the risk, and he was a Wilde through and through. Even if he’d vowed never to follow
the example his mother had set, throwing away her heart so foolishly.

Shrugging off that wayward thought, Jack put forward
another argument. “You said yourself, her parents want her to wed a nobleman.”

Skye smiled. “Yes, but you fit that bill yourself. You are not just nobility, you
are actual royalty. Prince de Villars has long wanted you to become his heir, and
now that he has reclaimed his country, you could be a prince.”

Jack frowned at the mere mention of his detested father. Prince Raoul de Villars was
the ruler of a small European principality whose throne had been usurped by the French
at the height of Napoleon’s domination and restored in the global reshuffling by the
Congress of Vienna. Jack was Prince Raoul’s natural son but had always refused to
acknowledge the connection, despite several requests over the years that the prince
be allowed to name him as heir, including a missive last autumn claiming his highness
was gravely ill and needed to designate a successor of his repossessed country immediately.

Jack wouldn’t let Skye sidetrack him with talk of his father, though, especially since
there was no way on earth he would ever take the prince up on his offer.

“There is also Miss Fortin herself,” Jack said. “She may not be meek and spineless,
but she is willing to wed Dunmore simply to please her father. I don’t want a wife
who cannot stand up for herself.”

Skye shook her head. “She may have good reasons for agreeing to the match, Jack. The
Fortins are not wealthy. They must rely on their cantankerous relative, Mrs. Pennant,
for financial support, including the very clothes they are wearing for the Season.
A woman should not have to sell herself in marriage.
You would not stand idly by if Kate and I were being forced to wed for money.”

“But you are not being forced.”

“No. We are extremely fortunate that our portions allow us the independence to choose
our mates. And your own mama was able to follow her heart. But Sophie Fortin does
not have our advantages. She is a damsel in distress. You have to help her, Jack,
just like Ash had to help Maura. Please … you cannot turn your back on a woman in
need.”

That was one argument that struck a powerful chord in him, given his compulsion to
rescue helpless, vulnerable females. No Wilde male would ever walk away from a lady
in distress, and Jack was more quixotic and protective than most.

But he was not about to let Skye use his weakness against him. Too often she managed
to get her own way, and he wouldn’t surrender to her so easily.

“Your idea of ‘helping’ her gives me shudders.”

“It shouldn’t prove too difficult for you. You only have to woo her away from the
duke and make her fall in love with you.”

Jack laughed aloud, this time with genuine amusement. “Only that? I suspect you give
my amorous skills too much credit.”

“I am perfectly serious,” Skye protested. “You are a far better alternative than the
duke. You just have to make her see it.”

“So you would have me compete with Dunmore for her affections?”

“Yes. Even without Prince de Villars’s riches, you are wealthy in your own right,
having inherited your
mama’s fortune. And you are much closer to Sophie in age than the duke.”

True, although he often felt older than his twenty-nine years since he’d had to grow
up quickly.

“You are forgetting that a love match must be mutual,” he pointed out.

Skye waved a hand in dismissal. “Pah, it will be easy to love Sophie. Everyone does.”

At his skeptical look, Skye leaned closer. “I am not saying it will be love at first
sight—for either of you—as it was in Shakespeare’s play. But you owe it to yourself
to determine if she is your destiny.”

Perhaps so. The trouble was, pursuing Sophie could pose a real danger to him. He’d
enjoyed more than his share of amorous liaisons, but he’d never come close to losing
his heart. Jack had a sinking suspicion that would soon change, the more time he spent
with her. Hell, he was half smitten already.

It had been a mistake simply to meet Sophie and a much worse mistake to kiss her,
for now he wouldn’t be able to keep away. He knew himself well enough to make that
prediction with certainty.

“Are you listening to me, Jack?”

“Do I have a choice? You are arguing that her lack of fortune puts her at a disadvantage
and excuses her timidity.”

Skye huffed in exasperation. “No, I am arguing that she deserves better than to be
sold into a loveless marriage. She will be miserable.”

“Her happiness is not my responsibility.”

“Of course not. But
your
happiness is
our
responsibility. We are your family. We love you and we want you to be happy.”

“I am happy.”

Skye raised an eyebrow. “Somehow I doubt it. You spend all your time drinking and
carousing and wenching and racing.”

Jack shot her an amused glance over his half-empty mug of ale. “What would you know
about wenching?”

“I am three-and-twenty and not nearly as innocent as I look. And I am positive your
carefree bachelor life will not be fulfilling forever.”

Jack took another long pull of ale. The Wilde cousins were an unruly bunch. Ash was
their fearless leader, while Quinn was the brilliant adventurer. Spitfire Kate was
the romantic of the family, and Skye the sweet but mischievous darling.

Jack, however, had always been the chief hell-raiser among them, notorious for his
escapades. Often during those dark months of mourning their parents, he’d purposely
played the fun-loving rascal—because he saw it as his duty to enliven his kin’s lives
and provide levity and diversion to ease their grief. The simple fact was, he’d learned
from an early age to use laughter as an antidote to pain.

As an adult, he’d continued his hell-raising ways. The shallow, diverting life of
the rake about town suited him well enough. Even so, the emptiness of his days had
begun to pall of late, accompanied by a nameless, nagging dissatisfaction with his
romantic dalliances. He wanted … more from his relationships.

Which was absurd. He had his family. He shouldn’t need anyone else. Furthermore, he
had only himself to blame if he felt alone and isolated at times. He still
kept part of himself closed off even from his close-knit family. For his own self-protection,
he still guarded his emotions and rarely showed any real feeling other than humor.

Unlike Skye, who wore her heart on her sleeve, as she was doing now. Her expression
had turned earnest and pleading.

“If you don’t act now, Jack, it will be too late. You will lose your chance for true
love. Life is too short to waste—you should know that better than anyone. Aunt Clara
was your age when she died, and she sacrificed
everything
for love.”

Jack winced at her frankness, but he should have expected Skye to use any means at
her disposal to convince him, including his mother’s sad experience. Skye was like
a burr when she wanted something, burrowing under the skin and refusing to be dislodged.
She’d been that way from an early age.

She wasn’t even born when he’d arrived in England with his uncles all those years
ago, newly orphaned and grieving and afraid. But her birth had given him something
to latch on to. She was so tiny and helpless, he’d appointed himself her protector.
Later as a toddler, she had followed him everywhere, calling him “mine.” He couldn’t
get rid of her.

She had stubbornly wormed her way into his heart, the first of his cousins to do so.
Skye had dragged him into the loving family fold, kicking and screaming. Because of
her keen sensitivity, she more than anyone had an instinctive understanding of the
torment he had gone through as a child, even if she didn’t know the excruciating details.
In return, he’d guarded and cared for her as if she were his flesh and blood sister.

A special bond still existed between them, which she unfairly called upon now:

“If you won’t try and save Miss Fortin for your own sake, then do it for mine.
Please
.”

And that was the rub, Jack knew. He was rarely able to resist Skye. Few people could,
especially men. She could wrap them around her finger and sweetly persuade them all
to do her bidding.

Yet he wouldn’t base a decision of such import on his cousin’s whims alone. If he
were to pursue his legendary lovers tale, it would be for his own sake. His and Sophie
Fortin’s.

It was true, though. Miss Fortin did need rescuing. And perhaps
he
needed rescuing from the self-imposed blandness of his life as well.…

Coming to a decision, Jack drained the last of his ale while shaking his head. He
couldn’t believe he was about to entangle himself in an age-old feud and complicate
his life immeasurably by trying to save a near stranger from a loveless marriage to
a middle-aged duke.

Apparently Skye misjudged his gesture. “So are you just giving up?”

“I did not say that.” He wouldn’t, couldn’t turn his back on Miss Fortin. Not now
that he’d had a taste of her. His protective instincts had been inexorably aroused.

Skye appeared to lose patience at his silence. “Drat you, Jack, you are being annoyingly
stubborn.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he grinned at her. “So what else is new?” At her
glare of frustration, however, he ended his teasing and held out his hand. “Give me
the damned journal.”

A brilliant smile spread Skye’s mouth as she slid the volume across the table.

“Don’t raise your hopes too high,” he warned. “I’m not promising to court her. And
you vastly underestimate the effort it will require to save her from wedding her duke
at this late date.”

“But you will at least investigate the possibility that she is your ideal mate?”

He indeed wanted to answer that fundamental question for himself. “Yes.”

Jumping up, Skye came surging around the table and wrapped her arms about his neck
from behind.

Half smothered by her fierce hug, Jack chuckled. “If you strangle me, I won’t be alive
to rescue her.”

“I am sorry. It is only that I am thrilled beyond words.” Skye planted an effusive
kiss on the top of his head before releasing him. “What will you do first? You cannot
get near Sophie. Her parents won’t allow it.”

“Leave the details to me. For now you need to take yourself home.”

“Very well,” Skye grumbled. “But I expect regular reports on your progress.”

“If so, you will wait in vain.”

Picking up the journal, Jack stood, then escorted his intrusive though well-meaning
cousin out of the kitchens and upstairs to his front door, where she collected her
pelisse and reticule. Skye had her own carriage and coachman and two strapping footmen
to attend her, so Jack had few qualms about sending her home at this late hour. She
would have protested his concern in any case.

When he had seen her safely into her carriage, Jack
turned back toward his house. He had a journal to read and a course to plot.

As he mounted his front steps, his mouth curved in an ironic, self-deprecating smile.
Doubtless he needed to have his head examined, but he was about to don his slightly-tarnished-knight
armor—or more pertinently, his Romeo costume.

As mad as it seemed, he intended to pursue Sophie Fortin and explore the question
of whether their legendary tale had a shot at coming true.

Situated in a
quiet London neighborhood, the Arundel Home for Unwed Mothers provided refuge for
nearly three dozen indigent expectant women and their newborns. The modest accommodations
included a dormitory and nursery as well as a large community room, where currently
many of the residents were engaged in mending and sewing articles of clothing.

Using the primers she’d brought with her, Sophie had spent the past hour with her
family’s former maid, tutoring Martha in reading and elementary sums. Upon finishing,
Sophie returned the books to her satchel, then rose and donned her spencer and bonnet
in preparation for leaving.

The very pregnant Martha climbed awkwardly to her feet and began weeping as she hugged
the gown of forest green muslin Sophie had remade to accommodate her swelling figure.

“I cannot thank you enough for your generosity, Miss Fortin,” Martha exclaimed, smiling
through her
tears. “ ’Tis a beautiful dress—the loveliest I have ever owned.”

“At least it should be comfortable for the final month before your child is born,”
Sophie said, embracing the girl gently. “But please don’t cry. It cannot be good for
you or the babe.”