Never a Gentleman (9 page)

She should sleep, but the ride was too uncomfortable. The Dover Road was living up to its reputation, knocking them about
like tenpins. And the rain would surely come, making it worse. Every other time she’d been in a coach since her return to
England, she’d spent her time watching the passing landscape. It had been a revelation to her. In her life she had lived in
India, in Egypt and America, and the West Indies. She’d been to Ceylon and Turkey, Italy and Spain, and had enjoyed every
exotic sight and sound. But she’d never really had a chance to enjoy her own country.

She consumed it like food for a starving soul. Green and hilly and peaceful, it was a land of neat farms and whitewashed thatched
villages, quaint half-timbered inns and solid stone castles, all arranged as if by a master gardener to emphasize the beauty
of the land. She swore it was the tidiest country she’d ever seen.

But this wasn’t the time to simply watch out the window. If she did, she would be left with too much time to think about what
had just happened. About what
would
happen.

Suddenly she could feel Diccan’s last kiss again. How
surprisingly soft his lips had been, how smooth his cheek and calloused his thumb. How she’d almost been overcome by the need
to lean into him, mesmerized by that hard, fascinating body against hers, the heat that radiated off his skin.

Didn’t he know how he tortured her by delaying the consummation of their marriage? Didn’t he know how frightened she was?
How anxious? How hopeful? She certainly knew the mechanics of what would happen. She knew how to describe it in Hindi, Portuguese,
French, Latin, Spanish, Urdu, and Cree. She knew what went where. After all her time tending soldiers, she certainly knew
what the
what
looked like. She even knew what men called it when they didn’t know a woman was listening.

Cock. Prick. Dick. Tallywacker. Bagpipe. Bayonet. John Thomas. Some men were even contrary enough to name the thing, as if
they could hold discourse with it. Her favorite had been a sergeant in her father’s company who, not knowing she could hear
him, admitted that he called his Mr. Pickle. How, she’d thought at the time, was a girl supposed to take it all seriously?

She had taken it seriously when she’d seen Diccan. When she’d seen
his
bayonet upright and rigid and throbbing. She’d always thought that those phalluses on the temple walls had been exaggerations
to make a point, like ages in the Bible stories or the strength of Irish heroes. After seeing Diccan, she had to admit that
she’d been wrong. Just the thought of it sent another shower of chills spilling down her spine. Her fingers itched to touch
it, to learn if it was as mystifying as it looked. As soft
and
hard.

Quite without her permission, her body began to heat up. She battled a sudden need to move, as if it could ease
the ache that had blossomed at the juncture of her legs. Her skin felt stretched too tight, and her breasts, her small, practical
breasts, tingled and ached. She was restless and impatient and humming with tension. She tasted an unfamiliar flavor on her
tongue and recognized it as anticipation.

She knew how to ease all those feelings, of course. Her friend Ghitika had showed her one day in India. Laughing at the incomprehensible
British reserve, the Indian girl had used the temple art as a tutorial in how to ease… tension. Not, though, Grace thought,
in a moving carriage with a witness.

Abruptly she shifted in her seat. This wouldn’t do at all. She needed occupation.

Lists. She needed to make lists. It had always been her job to make sure her father had a comfortable bivouac. She would simply
consider this another move. A new
haveli
in India. A farmhouse in Portugal. The difference would be that she wouldn’t be planning for her father, but for her husband.
Her husband, who had surprisingly calloused hands and a mouth that wove magic. Her husband, who opened a door she’d long since
thought closed: the chance for a home. A family. A life no longer lived at the periphery, but deep in the core of life.

Staff
, she thought, almost desperately rummaging in her reticule for her ubiquitous notebook and pencil. She would need staff.
Breege and Sean, of course. Sean had always been there, first as her father’s batman, and then, after losing his leg to a
stray cannonball, their man-of-all-work and Grace’s good friend. Breege had come along later. But it been Breege who had taught
Grace the basics of good housekeeping. As for the rest of the staff at Longbridge, they could stay there, where they were
safe and comfortable. She couldn’t imagine Radhika and Banwar liking London.

So. Staff. She assumed water and safety were taken care of. That left shelter, provisions, comfort. Furniture. Wardrobe. She
underlined
wardrobe
, and then added
night rail
. Surely she should get a new one. Diccan wouldn’t want to see her old nightgown. It was worn, plain, and practical.

Diccan wouldn’t really want to see her, either, though. She hadn’t forgotten the distress on his face when he’d seen her naked.
She shuddered. Sometime in the next few days, Diccan Hilliard would make love to her. But if she kept thinking of that, she
would never survive the hours until then. So she purposefully bent over her paper. She had lists to make.

He was going to have to have sex with Grace Fairchild
.
No
, Diccan thought.
He was going to have to have sex with his wife
. Christ, his head hurt.

He should be planning his meeting with Marcus Drake. He was late, he’d been compromised, and he failed to keep Evenham alive.
He was going to need every diplomatic skill in his kit to impress the government with how dire the situation was. Instead,
he loped along on the indefatigable Gadzooks and thought about the woman he’d just left. The life he’d just stumbled into.
The chore he’d been set. He shuddered just thinking about it.

If she only weren’t so bloody nice. He liked her. But it was inevitable that he’d end up hurting her. Oh, he’d get the job
done. After all, he’d been without his mistress for two weeks now, which was not a good state of affairs for him, as evidenced
by the fact that he’d woken up hard as a board this morning. More than morning-piss hard. More than, there’s-a-body-with-breasts-in-my-bed
hard.
Even wrapped around that long, painfully thin frame, he’d been blue-balled-I-need-my-sword-in-that-sheath-this-minute hard.
Pump-my-eyes-blind hard.

And that last kiss. He had meant to give Grace a chaste salute, just to counter her Grenadier’s insult. But sometime between
the offer and actually putting his mouth to hers, something had changed. The kiss had softened, slowed, and he’d felt as if
he were sipping a cool, sweet lemonade. A surprise he blamed on the waning effects of the laudanum. A memory that made his
cock stir, even now.

But even if he managed the thing so well that Grace took out a notice in the
Times
, it would still be a travesty. He shouldn’t be married. He’d be a disaster at it. And Grace…

He shook his head, actually distressed for her. The idea of her becoming part of his life was ludicrous. He was a diplomat.
A diplomat’s wife had to be a social animal: clever and witty and cool. Grace was honest and ungainly and shy. She wore her
gray dresses like a uniform and her hair so ruthlessly tied down it seemed invisible.

If only she’d been a real redhead. If she’d been blessed with a redhead’s fire, or even his cousin Kate’s outrageous self-confidence.
Kate could navigate the waters of a diplomatic function like a frigate in full sail. Grace Fairchild would stand out like
a frog in a fishbowl.

Beneath Diccan, Gadzooks snorted and shook his head, as if chastising him. Diccan knew he was being cruel. But it was beginning
to rain, the road was getting sloppy, and he was wet and cold. And he’d just had a too-clear image of what life would be with
Grace Fairchild at his side.

Maybe the best thing he could do for them both was to bed her, secure her reputation, and then find a way to live apart. She
certainly didn’t need him. He could return to his
post in France and leave her to set up house in London. Her and the monkey. It would be enough, wouldn’t it?

Excellent. Problem solved. Suddenly beset by an odd frustration, he kicked Gadzooks into a canter. He didn’t have the time
for this. He had more urgent problems to deal with. He had to redeem poor Evenham by warning the government that the Surgeon
was going after Wellington. And then, because he had made a vow, he was going to have sex with his wife.

The rain came in buckets. It disrupted traffic on the Dover Road and filled the coaching inns to overflowing. It rained all
night and into the next morning, the clouds low and thick and unending. When Grace climbed back into the coach after a cold,
damp night, she was armed with the travelogue she’d been reading when she and Kate had stopped at Canterbury.

Usually she was a quiet reader. This time, it seemed, she muttered.

“Is there something wrong, madame?” Biddle asked.

Startled at the sound of his voice, Grace looked up to find the morning advanced. She had been reading for hours. “No, thank
you, Biddle. I simply find this account of Egypt to be quite incorrect.”

“Have you been to Egypt, ma’am?”

“Yes. But I don’t think this Mr. Pettigrew has. He has quite misplaced the Valley of the Kings.”

“Then why read it?”

She smiled. “So I know what not to do when I write my own travelogue.”

Biddle frowned. “Write… oh, I see. You are jesting.”

She couldn’t help twitting the valet a bit. “Of course not. What would have been the point of all that travel, if not to share
it? I believe that it is the one disappointment I have in Hester Stanhope. She has so far left her adventures unrecorded.”

He actually sputtered. “Lady… Stanhope?” he squeaked, his opinion of the woman who had taken to living among Bedouin obvious.
“You don’t know her.”

“But I do.” She tilted her head. “Does that put me beyond the pale?”

He opened his mouth, but couldn’t seem to find words.

“My association with Hester should greatly increase my notoriety,” she said, her eyes brightening with mischief. “Why, it
might even lead to a speaking tour, don’t you think?”

Biddle pursed his lips. “Mr. Hilliard would never allow it. Much too dangerous for a lady.”

Grace’s laugh was soft. “More dangerous than fighting off French
voltigeurs
or Algerian pirates? My, I must get to know my country better. Or purchase another pistol.”

He blanched. “Another… you joke again, madame.”

“About my pistol? Oh, no. I never go anywhere without one.”

“Unthinkable. You must rely on the very excellent protection Mr. Hilliard gives you.”

Grace almost asked the obvious, how he could think that a hired postilion would be concerned enough to lay down his life for
a stranger, but one look at the valet’s ashen features told her he would not appreciate it in the least. Let him rest in pleasant
ignorance. She would keep her pistol primed.

A moment later she wondered if she had wished trouble
down on them. The going had been slow, but as they struggled up a steep hill, the mud seemed to take complete hold of the
wheels.
Slow
became
stop
. The driver yelled. Horses whinnied. The coach began to slide backwards.

Grace grabbed the strap and braced herself. Biddle moaned. Grace could feel the horses strain against their collars. The coach
lurched. The coachman yelled, and she heard the crack of a whip. They suffered no disaster, however. They were simply stuck.

Retying her bonnet against the wind, Grace pulled her pistol from her reticule and slipped it into her pocket. Then she kicked
open the door and stepped out into the quagmire, her boots sinking to the ankle. “Mr. Wilson! Stop!” she called up, blinking
against the blowing rain. “Pull off our luggage. We’ll get out and you can try again.”

The coachman’s astonished visage peered down from beneath a dripping slouch hat. “Happen y’r right, missy. We’m stuck solid.”
Tying off his reins, he jumped down.

“Come along now, Mr. Biddle,” Grace urged, leaning inside the open door as the postilion trudged back to the luggage compartment.

“But the mud…” the valet protested in dying tones.

“Will be all that much worse, the longer we stay. Believe me. Without a bit of help we’ll be here all day. Do you think there
is a farmhouse nearby, Mr. Wilson?”

“The Browns’ll answer,” the postilion, a weedy little man, lisped through missing teeth. “They well know the perils of Shooter’s
Hill.”

“Shooter’s Hill?” the valet echoed faintly. “Oh… no.”

Grace looked an inquiry at the driver. His smile was too satisfied by half. “Highwaymen. Love this neck o’ the woods. But
don’t fret. Han’t seen one in weeks.”

It was like an announcement. Suddenly there were hoofbeats and the report of a gun.

“Stand and deliver!”

Grace sighed. Of course. Without checking Biddle, she edged toward the high coach box, where she hoped Mr. Wilson kept a gun.
Everybody else was frozen. Two horsemen could be heard approaching the far side of the bright yellow coach. Maybe she could
surprise them.

Another shot rang out and Biddle screamed. The postilion crumpled. Grace saw that he’d drawn a gun of his own. Her heart sped
up, but she also felt the unnatural calm settle over her that always accompanied crises.

“Get out of the coach, you!” a rough voice yelled. Horses stomped impatiently on the other side of the coach. Grace didn’t
think she’d been seen.

“Open the door and climb out, Biddle,” Grace urged quietly. “And give them what they want.”

Biddle’s moan sounded like a woman in childbirth. But the more distracted the robbers were, the better Grace’s chances. Stealthily,
she reached up and slid her hand along the floor of the coachman’s perch. Yes, right where she’d hoped. A blunderbuss, tucked
beneath a rain cover. She just hoped the powder was dry.

Pulling it toward her, she stealthily cocked the hammer and peeked past the crosstrees to assess the situation. There were
two highwaymen, both large and masked, both with guns. Except that the one man had already discharged his. Off his horse now,
he was making for the back of the coach.