Margaret Moore (3 page)

“We are not discussing me.”

She flushed hotly. “I’m sorry. How am I to discover such things?”

He immediately continued as if she had not made her impetuous remark. “There is always gossip,” he said, and she thought his jaw clenched a bit. “You must find something to make the groom less appealing to your uncle.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“If things progress to the point of discussing a marriage settlement, there can be many questions and items to dispute during the negotiation of that legal document that will provide extra time for your investigation, as well.”

“I
understand,” she said, nodding. Then she frowned. “I am ignorant of the law. How would I know what to query?”

“Query everything and anything. Ask all the questions you can possibly think of. If I guess aright, at least a few will give your uncle pause. He may begin to ask other questions, or doubt some of the language of the contract. I assume he will want it all to his advantage, or as much as possible.”

“He will.” She toyed with her mug. “He may tell me such things are none of my concern.”

“He may not if he is pleased by your interest.”

“I
can try,” she conceded.

He looked around the tavern, and Vivienne realized it wasn’t as crowded as before. “The hour grows late,” he observed. “You must go home, and you must not think of running away again. Although now you think your family is being most unreasonable and even cruel, I’m sure they would be very distressed if anything were to happen to you.”

“I am not so certain.”

He reached out and cupped her chin in his long, lean fingers. His dark eyes seemed to be full of sorrow, a sadness that made her own heart ache, although she could not say why. “Trust me, they would.”

He let go of her, and got to his feet.

This place stank worse than a abattoir, but she didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

“Have you ever participated in plans for a marriage where a woman was obviously not willing?” she asked, making no move to go. “Or the groom?”

“No, although I have seen many where affection appeared to play little part in the planning.”

“To be in such a marriage must be a miserable existence.”

He held out his hand, obviously expecting her to take it, and stand. “They seem able to cope.”

“Yes, by taking lovers or gambling or drowning in drink,” she said, still delaying. “As I said, I do not wish to live that way. I want to have the kind of marriage my parents had, a marriage based on love.”

“They were fortunate.”

“And your parents?”

“I never knew them,” he said coldly.

He was shutting her out. For whatever reason, he had decided the conversation was concluded.

Reluctantly, she placed her gloved hand in his bare one and rose, noting the stains of ink on his right hand. Could he not even afford a clerk? she wondered as she reluctantly let him lead her from the tavern.

“We are in luck,” he observed as a hackney coach lumbered toward them.

She did not think so. She would think herself lucky if they had to walk back to her uncle’s house together.

He raised his hand and the hackney rolled to a stop beside them. As it did, he reached into his jacket and pulled out his purse.

“There is no need for you to pay for the coach,” she said. “I have money.”

“I cannot allow that.”

“I thank you for your generosity, sir, but truly, I would be ashamed to be any more indebted to you.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“I owe you a possible path out of my predicament.”

“I will pay for the coach,” he said as coldly as if they had not just spoken for all that time in the tavern. As if he had not come to her aid. As if he had not tried to save her life, whether from a watery grave or an abhorrent marriage.

“May I truly not know who has been so kind and generous to me, and given me such sage advice?” she asked softly.

“No.”

“There must be a way I can thank you.”

“Your words are enough.”

“I think not.”

“I am glad I could be of service to a woman in distress.”

He smiled, and she realized just how handsome he was, as handsome as any man she had ever seen.

And he was certainly kinder than most.

“The coachman is waiting,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she murmured, her heart thrumming with an emotion she had never felt before.

She didn’t move. She wanted to express her gratitude, and mere words seemed pale and insufficient.

With a different sense of desperation, she suddenly pulled him close and kissed him.

Not on the cheeks, as anyone might do in parting, but full on the lips, leaning into him. Passion and desire flared within her at the touch of his lips on hers. The sensation reached into her body and demanded more—more fervent excitement, more passion, more communion.

She had never kissed before, nor had she ever imagined that the melding of mouth to mouth could be so intoxicating.

His embrace tightened about her and his mouth moved over hers with equal passion. Insistent need exploded within her when his tongue pushed against her lips. She eagerly parted them and let him enter, as willing and full of fire as he.

Sweet heaven, she didn’t want to stop kissing him. She only wanted more.

He held her so close, she could hear his heart beating—or was that her own?

“’Ere, enough o’ that. Are you going to get in or not?” the coachman grumbled.

The lawyer abruptly stopped kissing her and stepped back.

She almost moaned with dismay.

“She will tell you where you are to take her,” he said.

He sounded so calm, while her heart hammered and her blood throbbed and every sense seemed more alive. Then she saw that his face was flushed.

He pressed his purse into her hand. “That should be enough,” he murmured. “Farewell, and Godspeed.”

With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the fog like some sort of phantom.

She might have doubted he had existed at all, except that she could still feel his hot kiss on her swollen lips.

She had behaved like an utter wanton, kissing him like that. She should be ashamed of herself, and sorry.

But she was not.

She only regretted that she did not know his name or have any idea how she could meet him again.

S
eated at his desk, Rob rubbed his eyes, then tried to concentrate once more on the document before him. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week, ever since that night in Bankside.

Against his will, his mind’s eye conjured a pretty, smiling face and beautiful blue eyes. Blue like the sky if one were out of the city, with its coal-smoke-tarnished air. Blue like the velvet coat King Charles had sported as he rode past Robert’s office a few days ago.

He assumed she had arrived home safely and had sufficient money to pay the coachman. He had given her all that he had, but it was not much.

Perhaps he should have gone in the coach with her, told her his name, asked her what hers was, found out where she lived—but surely that would have been unwise. Judging by her garments and accent, she was far above him. What could he ever hope to offer a woman like her? Chambers he owed back rent on, and not even in Chancery Lane like other solicitors. A bevy of poor clients who were very grateful, but could not afford to give much cash for his services. The few secondhand furnishings he owned, some well-tended clothes.

And his reputation—the good and the bad.

No, he could never be anything more to her than a nameless solicitor who gave her some advice.

Yet every time he spared a moment from his work since he had met her, or when he tried to sleep, he had seen the unknown beauty’s face, and even more vividly remembered her kiss.

He had never known such a kiss, full of vibrant ardor and desire. His surprise at her unforeseen act had immediately given way to a thrill of delight and growing excitement.

How wonderful her lips had felt against his own, and how astonishing her passion. To think a woman like her, in a fine soft cloak, by her voice well born and well bred, who could surely have her pick of men—provided they met her uncle’s approval—
she
had kissed him.

To be sure, he had been kissed before, especially by his lost, beloved Janet, until she had the chance to be a rich man’s mistress and to leave behind their wretched poverty for something better.

Sadly for Janet, her opportunity had only led to her miserable death.

At times in the tavern, with her head demurely lowered and her dusky lashes fanning her rosy cheeks, the young woman had reminded him of his sweet and gentle Janet.

At other times, she most definitely did not. She met his gaze straight on, her full lips pressed together, her very attitude one of purpose and determination.

Perhaps that was another reason she haunted his dreams, where she was always waiting for him. She stood in a luxurious bedchamber, a large room lit by several candles, the bed wide and covered in pristine linens.

She wore a simple white garment, like an angel, her hair loose about her shoulders, and her eyes shone with welcome. Then she smiled and came toward him slowly, until she was close enough for him to take in his arms.

How he kissed her then! The scent of roses lingered about her, growing stronger and stronger as their kiss deepened. With impatient desire he picked her up and carried her to the bed.

Light in his arms, she laid her head against his chest as if she knew he would always protect her and never, ever abandon her.

Not like Janet.

With a sigh, he once more forced himself to study the contract before him. He could not help Janet anymore. Nor could he help the unknown beauty.

But he could help Mistress Dimdoor. She had been abandoned by her husband, who had sailed to the New World. One of the husband’s former associates claimed that he had also left a sizable debt unpaid, and he was suing Mistress Dimdoor to recover it. It was not difficult to see why Mistress Dimdoor was in difficulties. The promissory note before him held more prevaricating language than he had yet encountered in his career.

Fortunately for her, the signature of the creditor at the bottom was clear enough, indicating that the debt and all the interest had been paid in full. At least her husband had not abandoned his debts along with her when he had sailed.

Sighing again, Rob leaned back in his chair, the wood hard against his shoulders. Would that everything in his life could be so easily concluded and he could forget the past.

The singular smell of goose grease made him open his eyes.

Bertie Dillsworth’s deferential face appeared around the door, his hair sticking up as it always did, despite the goose grease he insisted upon using in his vain attempts to get it to lie flat. “There’s a man here, Rob—Mr. Harding,” he sheepishly corrected, remembering that Rob had instructed him to use a formal address when there were clients to hear, “and if you please—”

“Of course he pleases,” a languid, upper-class voice drawled. “I’faith, man, I’m bringing him some business, so he better damn well please. And what in the name of St. David is that stench?”

Bertie’s head disappeared abruptly and the door flew open, revealing Bertie staggering back as if he had been shoved while another man, the very picture of a well-dressed, well-fed, well-wined courtier, sauntered into Robert’s office, regardless of the other people waiting to see him in the anteroom.

As Rob rose, the man looked around, his expression one of mild disgust, before his bloodshot gaze settled on Rob. “You are Heartless Harding, I presume?” he asked in that same languid voice, as if speaking were really too, too much trouble.

Or perhaps it was only so when he was addressing his social inferiors.

A vein in Robert’s forehead started to throb; otherwise, he gave no outward sign that he was even slightly disturbed by the fellow’s haughty attitude. “I am Robert Harding. Dillsworth, please ask Mistress Dimdoor if she would mind waiting a moment.”

The arrogant stranger looked at Rob as if he had uttered blasphemy, while Bertie quietly spoke to the middle-aged seamstress waiting on a bench. She looked at Rob and nodded her head, eliciting a rare smile from him that made her flush to the roots of her hair.

“Since Mistress Dimdoor is so good as to accommodate you, please sit down,” Rob said.

“You
are
the chap who arranges such wondrous contracts and settlements and wills,” the fashionable fellow replied. “Ironclad and faultless, so I’ve been told.”

“So some people claim. I do my best.”

“Of course you do. Your servant.” The man swept the broad-brimmed, plumed hat from his head, which sported one of the more extreme style of wigs currently in fashion among the court. The dark curls extended well past his shoulder, over his embroidered scarlet velvet jacket.

Rob wondered what color his hair really was, for he suspected the black was a compliment to the king’s own fulsome—and natural—locks.

“Your servant, sir,” Rob automatically replied.

The man’s superior smile seemed to indicate that he took that social pleasantry for truth before he sat in the chair opposite Rob’s desk.

“Dillsworth, be so good as to close the door,” Rob said, glancing at his inquisitive clerk and incidentally all the rest of his clients, who were listening with unabashed interest.

The man opposite him twisted slightly in his chair and watched as Bertie obeyed, giving Rob another chance to scrutinize him.

He had a long thin face with a slender, aquiline nose, a thin upper lip above a fuller lower one, and narrow eyes overshadowed by brows that Rob guessed had been dyed to match his wig, for the shade was unnaturally dull. His complexion also seemed unnaturally pale, as if he rarely saw the sun. He sported small patches of black taffeta cut in the shapes of diamonds and circles on his chin and cheek. Judging by the red skin at the edge of the one on his chin, they were there both because they were fashionable and to hide blemishes.

As for his clothes, they were not quite so fine upon closer examination. The embroidery had obviously been mended and his gauntlet gloves and hat were far from new, although Rob thought the plume had recently been replaced.