Miracle (41 page)

Why,
dammit
? Because she believed in flying? Because she communicated with animals better than she did with people? Or simply because she belonged to his brother . . . his brother who had had everything dropped into his lap from the first minute he was born, who'd yet to learn how to appreciate the wealth and power his station in life had brought him, who didn't have the slightest notion what a woman like Miracle Cavendish could do for him, if he allowed her?

He moved unsteadily toward the exit. Someone slapped a hand on his shoulder and breathed their distilled breath against the side of his face. "One more go,
ya
young bastard. I'm enjoying emptying your pockets too much, Basingstoke, after all the times you've sent me home with a gouged purse. A round at the whist table. What do you say?"

Clayton looked over his shoulder and into the bloodshot eyes of Sir Fritz Drummond, who had once belonged to one of His Majesty's three regiments of foot guards and had lost the position because of his penchant for gambling on the job.

"Sir," Clayton said in so soft and threatening a tone that Fritz's eyebrows went up. "Remove your hand from my shoulder."

"And if I don't?"

"Then I'll be forced to remove it myself."

"What's wrong, Basingstoke? Poor loser?"

"I'm too damn drunk to debate the issue, Drummond."

Sir Harry Calvert, adjutant-general to the duke of York, moved up and gently took Drummond's hand from Clayton's shoulder. "You don't want to fight him, Fritz. The last man who did wound up with a rapier stripe across his lower belly, just a humbling few inches from his most prized and personal assets." He smiled at Clayton. "We all know how Basingstoke feels about our occasional lack of decorum. No need to prove him right again. Go home and sleep it off, Hawthorne, whatever it is that's eating at you. I'm quite certain you'll be back tomorrow night in fine form, plucking our purses and robbing us all of our last shilling."

Saying nothing, Clayton turned his back on his companions and exited the club. Breathing deeply of the thick night air, he watched the traffic move up and down Saint James Street coming and going from one reception to the other. Ah, the season. The glorious, stomach-churning season. When every parent paraded their daughters down the potential path of marriage, hoping that someone like himself would pluck up the tender little chickens and carry them away to live happily ever after in the land of milk and honey. He'd already received two dozen invitations by post, another dozen hand delivered by starry-eyed mamas who were inordinately interested in Basingstoke Hall.

"So tell me, my lord, is it true that you decline to live in the house, choosing instead to reside in some apartment in the stables? You're waiting for the perfect woman to share it with? Have you recently seen my daughter, my lord? It just so happens I've dropped by to present you with an invitation to join our reception. You can't attend? Oh. Well. Tell me, Basingstoke . . . how is your brother the duke faring these days?"

A group of men rounded a corner, laughing, shouting comments to the travelers on the street. Clayton gave them little notice until they practically plowed him over. His patience at an end, he turned angrily . . . and looked directly into his brother's eyes.

"By gosh," the duke said, and broke into a smile. "Look who we have here, lads and ladies. Lord Basingstoke!" Trey slapped him on the shoulder and Trey's friends pressed close, all with slightly drunken smiles, each with their arm around women of questionable reputations. The female at Salterdon's side swayed a little, then grabbed his arm for support. She
hiccuped
, then giggled. "Haven't heard from you since you arrived back in London," Trey said.

Paying little notice to his brother's swaggering friends, Clayton focused on the street, did his best to block out the noise, the infuriating press of people, the fact that the stink of burning coal and horse dung burned his nostrils. Where the devil were cabs when you needed them? "You were to let me know before you came back to the city," he finally said to Trey.

"Was I? Yes, perhaps I was. Oh well, it was a spur of the moment move."

"The barrister must have come home from Madrid."

"Most unexpectedly."

Clayton whistled at a hackney, then noticed it was
al- ready
occupied. "I suppose this means you'll be wanting to see
Meri
soon," he muttered under his breath.

His smile widening, the duke sidled closer, dragging his female companion with him, and gave Clay a wink. "Have done,
oF
boy."

Clayton's eyes cut to Trey's.

"Yes." Trey continued in a low tone. "Just hours ago. Curiosity got the better of me, I confess. Wanted to see exactly what I was getting myself into. I realize it was a risky move, considering we haven't discussed the details of your stay at Cavisbrooke. Then again, I do so enjoy flirting with the razor's edge; must run in the family, don't you think, Clay?"

Moving around Clayton, pressing closer, Trey said near his ear, "Her mouth is delicious, wouldn't you agree? And that place between her legs . . . my God, it drove me out of my good senses."

Clayton walked away, or tried to. He was forced to elbow his way through the duke's sycophants, only to stumble into the street, straight into the path of a barreling post chaise. Trey grabbed him by his coat and dragged him back. Spinning, Clayton knocked his hand away, then planted one hand on his brother's chest and shoved him aside. The crowd whooped; the women squealed.

Gaining his footing and straightening his coat, Trey raised one eyebrow and tugged his arm free of the woman's grip. He forced a smile. "Seems my good brother isn't in the mood tonight for camaraderie, lads. I wonder why?"

Burying his hands in the duke's coat front and twisting, Clayton dragged Trey so close he could feel Trey's breath against his face. "What's even more curious than my mood is why, or how, you could leave the company of Lady Cavendish for that little tart there."

"Tart!" the woman at Trey's side squeaked. "Just who the blazes are
ya
callin
' a tart?
Yer
Grace, will
ya
be
allowin
' him to talk to me that way? I'm a lady, after all, or so
ya
says."

"Seems you're a mite touchy about the girl," Trey commented to Clayton. "Then again, we're all aware of your commiseration toward the downtrodden. And she is an entertaining bit of stuff, not to mention comely . . . if you peel away the layer of horse dung between her toes. In fact, I would wager to say that my wedding night will prove to be more enjoyable than I had once believed .. . if her body proves to be as soft and curvaceous in bed as it did in my arms earlier this evening."

The world turned red. His voice low and savage, Clayton hissed, "What have you done to her?"

"What do you think?"

Clayton hit him. Hard. Across the jaw.

The duke flew backward with a grunt and groan of pain. His friends caught him before he hit the ground, and hoisted him to his feet. The suddenly silent crowd then moved back, while Trey returned Clay's fixed stare and raised one hand to tenderly smear blood from his lip. "It seems I hit a rather sensitive nerve," he said. "Perhaps my brother wishes to demand satisfaction. What do you think, lads? I wonder if there has ever been a duel fought between brothers—not just
any
brothers, mind you, but identical twin brothers. Might make good conversation at the chocolate houses. What say, Clay? Shall we give it a go?" Leaning closer and lowering his voice, Trey added with a droll smile, "Is her hot, willing little body worth dying over?"

Little by little, the anger drained from Clay, replaced by the thick, drugged sluggishness of inebriation and cold reason. What the devil was he doing, flogging his brother in public, allowing Trey to get under his skin, to aggravate the envy he'd experienced since putting eyes on Miracle Cavendish for the first time.

A hackney pulled up at that moment; Clay turned away from the crowd and his brother, and climbed aboard. He fell back into the worn seat only to discover his brother had partially mounted the step behind him.

"One thing more," the duke told him. "Until I've spoken with grandmother, our little fairy is not to be seen in
public.
I don't want word of my betrothal to reach the duchess before I do. In fact, grandmother is not to even know of my impending marriage until after the deed is done. I've some business that takes me to York for the next few days—"

"Have you had her?" Clayton blurted, his voice sounding exaggeratedly slurred in the stifling confines of the hot hackney. Sweat ran down his temples and burned his eyes. He thought he might vomit. He was certain he would if his brother confessed to making love to Miracle. He might even kill him, so desperate did he feel in that moment.

Trey regarded him intensely before responding less snidely. "That's really none of your business, now, is it, Clay?"

A moment of reasoning passed. Clayton shook his head, sank into the less than luxurious seat, and stared straight ahead.

Trey continued. "While I'm in York I'll make the necessary arrangements for the marriage . . . .post the banns,
et
cetera. Then I'll return to London for the girl. Until then, brother Basingstoke, enjoy her while you can . . . with my blessings."

Stepping away from the cab, Salterdon slammed the door and barked something to the driver. The conveyance lurched away. The drone of traffic, of cabbies whistling and jousting for position, of horses whinnying, and the sound of iron wheels on the cobblestone road surrounded Clayton like a womb. He felt stifled . . . hot. He wanted to jump out of the hansom, run down his brother, and hit him again.

His head fell back against the seat, he closed his eyes, and imagined Trey sauntering into Park House to be greeted by Miracle, her face alive with excitement. He imagined Trey kissing her. Imagined her response: how she would mold her body into his, part her lips, eagerly accept his tongue. She always made a soft little sound in her throat—a sound of surrender, desire, mounting passion.

Ah, yes. Her mouth was delicious. The mere thought of it had driven him to bury himself in hazard every night and to drink himself into oblivion because it was the only way he could make himself stay away from her. The only way he could take his mind off the reality that his brother was going to marry her.

Damn him. Damn him.

Damn Trey Hawthorne, the duke of Salterdon, for not realizing what he had.

"Sir? You! Asleep in me bloody box, wake up."

He opened his eyes. Where was he?

Forcing himself, he scrambled out of the hackney, stood for a moment on the curb, and tried to focus on his surroundings. The houses, with their striped awnings and flower boxes at the windows, all glowed with light. Occasionally, music drifted to him. Laughter. On the opposite side of the street stretched the dark Hyde Park. A lone rider on his high-prancing steed trotted down Rotten Row, the long strip of reddish brown earth running along the green, singing as loudly and drunkenly as he could.

Park House. How the blazes had he ended up here?

He dug for a coin in his pocket, and found nothing.

Clamoring onto the hackney, the driver called back, "His Grace done took care of it, sir."

"I see. Did His Grace also tell you to bring me here?"

"He did, sir," he replied through the dark. Then, with a snap of his whip, the horses pranced away, leaving Clayton standing on the sidewalk and staring at his brother's townhouse.

With a will not of his own, he moved through the white picket gateway with its trellis of roses, along the garden path flanked by sweet Williams and pansies, up the steps, through the unlocked entry, and into the foyer, where he came face to face with a startled Gertrude dressed in her sleeping gown and ruffled nightcap, her hands full of cheese and bread as she made her way to her own sleeping quarters.

"
Lud
!" she cried, and jumped back, flinging her bedtime snack to the floor where it landed with a thump on her foot. "
Ya
startled me,
Yer
Grace,
comin
' at me through that door with no
warnin
'. What's a lass to think, sir?
Ya
could have been some mucky man out to make mischief with me body or
someaught
." Squinting to better see him in the dim light, she studied his face, her own screwing into a look of consternation as her eyes traveled down, over his simple frock coat, to his leather breeches, Hessians, and spurs.