Rexanne Becnel (7 page)

“Miss Estelle Kendrick,” the innkeeper said. “May I present Mr. Marshall MacDougal, come to us all the way from the wilds of America, he has.”

“We’ve already been introduced,” she cooed. But she curtsied again as he bowed, providing him with an even better view of her outsized chest. There was no ruching in her bodice like his mother had often sewed for one of her employers. That was all warm, trembling flesh—and available for closer inspection, he surmised, if the sultry look in Miss Kendrick’s eyes was any indication.

Though he’d not come here tonight with an idea of seduction, Marsh felt a surge of relief to find another woman—any woman—to distract him from Sarah Palmer. So he grinned at the woman and said a silent thank-you to Mr. Halbrecht. “What a pleasure to meet you again, Miss Kendrick. Had I known the warm welcome awaiting me in Kelso, I would have come years ago.”

She grinned right back at him. “An’ I wish you had. There’s no making up for the past, but let’s not waste the present. Aren’t you goin’ to invite me to dance?”

“But I was hoping to do that meself,” Mr. Halbrecht put in.

“Oh, Henry.” She placed a hand on the innkeeper’s sleeve and squeezed. “You and I, we’ve danced a hundred times before. An’ I promise to dance with you tonight. Only later.” She smiled up at Marsh, an expression that was almost predatory. “Right now I want to dance with Mr. MacDougal.”

Marsh had no intention of declining, and when it proved to be a waltz, he was not sorry. At every turn Miss Kendrick’s bountiful bosom brushed up against his chest. He fancied he could feel her oversized nipples protruding through her bodice and his waistcoat, and he had to fight the urge to look down into the warm, dark cavern between those breasts.

“Are you staying here permanent-like?” she asked, still smiling. Her teeth were slightly crooked, he noticed, with a dull cast to them.

“No. I’m merely visiting.”

“Too bad. Oops!” She giggled, stumbling, then clinging to his arms so that her breasts squashed against his chest. Marsh promptly forgot about her teeth, and yet he was also put off by her blatant display. There was a lot to be said for subtlety in a woman. Certainly Sarah had not needed to resort to such—

He squelched the thought. He would not compare Estelle Kendrick to her. In truth, he didn’t want to think of Sarah Palmer as a woman at all. She was his half-sister and even though that was a distasteful thought, it was preferable to his previous thoughts about her.

So he concentrated on enjoying Estelle Kendrick’s lusty attentions, and when Sarah swept by in the arms of a brawny fellow, he refused to follow her with his eyes.

But he did not entirely succeed, for even a peripheral view of Sarah Palmer made him forget about the warm armful of woman he held. Working to ignore Sarah Palmer took all his energy.

And when Sarah Palmer’s dance partner whirled her around to the far side of the room near the open terrace doors, he was nonetheless vitally aware of it.

But he didn’t care, he told himself. He refused to care. It was a relief to have his view of her blocked by other dancers. Out of sight, out of mind.

So he forced himself to smile down at Miss Kendrick, availing himself once more of the view from above. The last few stanzas of the song seemed to last forever, though, and when his buxom partner suggested that she was a little overheated, something perverse in him jumped at the chance.

“Perhaps a little fresh air?” he suggested. “A turn in the garden?”

She grinned. “Ooh, love. I believe you’ve read my mind.”

S
ARAH
was hardly aware of the music, nor of her steps or her dance partner who so vigorously whirled her about the crowded dance floor. She still could not believe that Marshall MacDougal had snubbed her that way. No use to pretend it had been anything other than a very obvious snub. The cut direct. He’d watched her come down the stairs, seen the mayor approach her, then made a hasty exit before she could be led over to the small group that included him.

She did not understand.

Yesterday he’d been flirtatious. Indeed, with his bold kisses he’d seemed bent upon seduction. She’d been horrified, of course, but also secretly thrilled, especially after their proper introduction by the vicar. Certainly the last thing she would ever have anticipated tonight was his pointed avoidance of her.

How dare he!

She clenched her teeth together until they hurt. How dare he snub her? Ill-mannered boor! Ignorant American! Didn’t he know that she was a great heiress, that she had been the toast of London for three seasons now?

Yes. And what use is your vast fortune and all that social acumen? What use is any of it if you are lonely?

Just that quickly did Sarah’s outrage dissolve into misery. She thought about her mother’s happy marriage, and her sister’s. Why could she not find a wonderful man like Justin or Neville to fall madly in love with and marry? She wouldn’t care if he was rich or poor. He could be a town dandy or somewhat the bumpkin, if only he loved her to distraction, and she loved him equally well.

“It’s a little warm in here,” her partner murmured as he spun her around.

“Yes,” she absently replied. But she did not tend too closely to his words, for she was too busy looking for Mr. MacDougal and his dance partner, Estelle Kendrick. Estelle Kendrick in that dress meant to grace the form of a woman of considerably lesser attributes.

Bad enough he had snubbed her. He added insult to that injury, however, when he had led Estelle out to the dance floor, took her in his arms, and joined the circle of enthusiastic dancers. Sarah had not wanted to stare and she had pointedly turned away. Still, she had nearly choked on her outrage. He went out of his way to the point of rudeness to avoid her. Yet he danced eagerly with that…that thoroughly unpleasant creature.

To even recall it made her nostrils flare with distaste.

But she didn’t care, she once more told herself. She didn’t care at all. The two of them deserved one another. He was a rude cad and she a selfish, loose-moraled cat.

With a determined effort, Sarah ceased her ridiculous search of the crowded dance floor. With any luck they were gone and she wouldn’t have to look at either of their spiteful faces. She gave her own partner a brilliant smile, brilliant but distracted. Let Estelle and that American ruffian dance. Let them do whatever it was they wanted to do, even out in the shadows. It didn’t matter to her.

She was so intent on convincing herself of that fact that when Mr. Guinea pulled her a little nearer, she did not protest. And when he steered them out onto the dimly lit terrace, with its fragrant roses and flickering torchlight, she didn’t give it a second thought.

“’Tis a lovely night,” he said, still holding her in his arms, though they had stopped dancing.

“Yes. Lovely,” Sarah agreed.
If you happen to enjoy being snubbed by a man when you’re the one who should be doing the snubbing
. She slipped gracefully out of his embrace and moved restlessly toward the balustrade.

Everyone must have seen how he avoided her. What must they think? And why would he do such a thing anyway? Was it because of that horrible Estelle and her overdeveloped chest?

Sarah had never before doubted her own attractiveness. Any woman of even modest appearance seemed beautiful when she smiled and laughed and paid particular attention to a man. Her mother had drummed that message into her and she’d long ago come to know it was true. Smiling and laughing with a man was a skill she’d mastered before she’d even departed the schoolroom.

But it seemed Estelle had mastered it even better.

“You are very beautiful.”

She jerked when Mr. Guinea’s voice penetrated her sour thoughts. She gave him an automatic smile. “And you are very kind.”

He moved nearer—a little too near—and she sidled away on the pretext of smelling a cluster of tightly furled roses. “These flowers must be lovely by day.”

“They’re nothing compared to you, Miss Palmer.”

She looked up, dismayed by the admiring tenor of his voice. She hoped he did not think she’d come out here for any reason other than to cool off from the dancing.

But it was plain he did. His eyes were bright with the light of pursuit—and perhaps a trifle too much whiskey. And she, unfortunately, had backed into a dim and isolated corner of the terrace.

She stifled a groan. This was when a chaperone or even a disapproving maid would come in handy. Only she didn’t have one, for Agnes was already gone to Carlisle, and a moody fourteen-year-old boy did not count. It was up to her to nip Mr. Guinea’s ardor in the bud, before this evening progressed from bad to worse.

“You are very kind, Mr. Guinea,” she repeated, angling herself toward the open ballroom doors. He shifted his bulk, however, effectively cutting off her path.

But Sarah had experience with men of his ilk. Even earls and dukes could not be entirely trusted—especially after they’d had a few glasses of strong spirits. She lifted her chin to an arrogant degree, narrowed her eyes, and stared up at him. Though her expression remained reasonably friendly, her voice was as stern as any governess’s.

“I would like to go back inside, Mr. Guinea. Would you be good enough to escort me?”

“Aw. What’s your hurry?” he complained, not moving an inch. “It’s nice out here. We can talk. You know,” he went on, “you’ve grown up just as pretty as your sister.”

What a crude, mannerless oaf!
“We can talk just as well inside. I insist we go. Now.”

“In a minute.”

“Now!” When he hesitated, she shoved at his chest, trying to push past him. But he didn’t move and with one hand he caught her by the arm.

She knew at once that the time for social niceties was done. In the split second when he bent nearer to her, she regretted what she must do. She had not wanted to create a scene tonight. But there seemed no hope for it.

He lowered his head to kiss her; she lifted her arm to slap him.

But before she could let fly her hand, he let out a yelp and lurched backward so fast she stumbled against the stone balustrade. Was he that intimidated by her threat of violence?

Another man’s low and threatening growl swiftly disavowed her of that foolish thought. “I suggest you go inside.”

Marshall MacDougal!

Thank goodness! Sarah spun around. But when she spied Estelle just behind him, her relief fled. Had he actually come out here to rescue her, or was he just showing off for Estelle?

That subtlety became unimportant, however, when Mr. Guinea shoved to his feet and turned furiously on his unexpected foe. He raised his knotted fists at Mr. MacDougal. “I dunno who you are, mister, but you’re not one to be ordering Clancy Guinea about.” And with that he lashed out with a fearsome blow.

Sarah shrank back against the balustrade. This could not be happening!

But it was. Fortunately, Mr. MacDougal had ducked and shifted so that the other man’s fist flew harmlessly past his head. His glance flickered momentarily over Sarah, then back to his enraged opponent. But it was long enough for Sarah to recognize how angry the American was at her. At her! So angry as to leave her stunned. What had she done to deserve such animosity?

Then Mr. Guinea lunged at Mr. MacDougal and she gasped. Beyond them Estelle clapped her hands and laughed. Dear God, they were going to fight!

As before, Marshall avoided the man, dancing aside, then shoving Mr. Guinea off his feet. “Stay down, man, else I will have no choice but to hurt you.”

“Aw, hurt him, luv. It’s the only thing a big oaf like him understands,” Estelle threw in. She smirked at Sarah as if to say,
My man can take your man
. Though Sarah wanted neither of the two men, the woman’s smugness still irritated her.

But Estelle’s nastiness took a distant second to the physical conflict taking place in front of her. For Mr. Guinea faced Mr. MacDougal, fists at the ready. Two ruffians facing one another, Sarah decided, though it distressed her nonetheless.

She had sneaked out once to a boxing match in Cheapside. But that brutal display now seemed controlled compared to this spontaneous display of male aggression.

She turned away, not wanting to watch. Before she could reach the door, however, Mr. Guinea struck out. She heard the ugly sound of flesh thudding violently against flesh. Then someone dropped like a stone. Mr. Guinea, she saw when she looked back. Marshall MacDougal stood over him, grimacing and shaking his right fist.

“Son of a bitch,” Marsh muttered. His knuckles stung like the devil. He scowled down at the inert clod at his feet. He hadn’t wanted to fight the man—or any other man. So why had he inserted himself into Sarah Palmer’s affairs?

He raised his gaze to find her staring at him, her face pale, her eyes huge. Her shock only deepened his scowl. He had not wanted to follow her out onto the terrace. Nor had he wanted to come to her rescue when her bully boy had tried to steal a kiss. After all, what man wouldn’t try to steal a kiss from those tart, delectably pouting lips? He’d done the same thing the first chance he’d had.

No, he hadn’t wanted to get involved with her at all tonight. Bad enough he was tied to her by the blood of their amoral father.

But he’d lost all control when he’d watched her dance out onto the terrace. Blinded by emotions he did not want to examine too closely, he’d promptly danced his own partner out another door. Then he’d seen Sarah trapped by that scoundrel and he’d been consumed by the need to beat the man senseless.

It had been five years since he’d retired from his short but profitable stint in the boxing ring. Yet that old urge to completely vanquish his opponent had roused instantly to a fever pitch.

Thank God the man stayed down. For even now it took every bit of his self-control not to hurt the oaf.

Instead, he turned those raging emotions on the woman at the center of it all, the reckless beauty—whose beauty he must force himself not to notice ever again.

“You are a menace,” he began in a low, furious voice. “To yourself and anyone who comes near you!”

“Me? Why, you—”

“Hey!” Estelle broke in. “Don’t you be worryin’ about her, luv. Estelle is here to lick your wounds for you.”

The fact that she managed to endow the word
lick
with such emotion—and that he was not in the least interested—made Marsh even angrier. He glared at Sarah. “I suggest you get inside before anyone finds out what trouble you’ve caused.”

“
I’ve
caused?” She was practically sputtering with rage, and with her cheeks flushed and her eyes flashing, she was the picture of affronted dignity. Though Estelle’s warm bosom pressed against his arm, it was Sarah who roused his lust.

But he refused to lust after his own sister!

“Go!” he roared at her.

At the same moment another man leaped over the garden wall and onto the terrace. “Here! Don’t you be shouting at her!” He glared at Marsh, then at Estelle. “Ma?” The fellow’s expression turned to confusion. “Ma? What’s goin’ on here?”

It was a boy, Marsh realized. A boy who gaped, first at the fallen Mr. Guinea, who’d begun to stir, then at Marsh, who still stood over the ill-mannered brute.

“What’s goin’ on here?” he repeated. He scowled at Estelle. “Ma? What have you gone and done now?”

“Me? It’s her as has caused all this trouble. Her and her loose London ways.”

The boy surged forward. “Don’t you be ugly to her!”

“An’ don’t you talk back to your own ma, Adrian Hawke.”

Marsh glared at the boy, but he directed his words to Estelle. “This is your son?”

“I am,” the boy answered for her. “Who in blazes are you? And why did you lay out Guinea-hen?”

Marsh could hardly answer the question for himself; he had no intentions of trying to do so for this skinny youth. “Take your mother inside, boy. I’ve something to say to Miss Palmer.”

Estelle clasped Marsh’s arm tighter. “What business do you have with her? Send her inside, not me.”

Meanwhile, the boy glared at them both. “Let go of my mother. I don’t want her carousing with the likes of you.”

“Shut up, Adrian,” Estelle hissed. “An’ mind your own business.”

Marsh peeled Estelle off him. “Begone, the both of you!”

“
You
begone!” Sarah piped in, her fists planted on her hips. “You’re the problem here, not us. Why don’t you go away and leave us alone?”

Marsh could have shaken Sarah. “That’s the thanks I get for saving you from him?” He advanced on her, but the boy, Adrian, leaped bravely between them. Though nearly Marsh’s height, he couldn’t have been half his weight. Still, that did not prevent the lad from challenging Marsh.

“Stay away from Sarah, else I’ll give you a thrashing!”

Sarah grabbed the boy’s arm. “No, Adrian. I won’t have you fighting.”

“Get away from her, son!” Estelle hissed the order. “Get away from that bitch!”

At the boy’s brave display, Marsh’s animosity began to wane. The lad had spunk. You had to give him that. Despite having a wanton for a mother, he possessed an odd sort of nobility that Marsh had to respect. “I assure you, boy, that I have no intention whatsoever of hurting Miss Palmer. Nor of fighting with you.”

“What’s the matter? D’you think I couldn’t hurt you? D’you think I won’t fight you? ’Cause I will.”

Again Sarah caught the lad’s sleeve. “Adrian. Please. No!”

But he shook her off, glaring still at Marsh. “I don’t know who you are, but you can’t come into our town and grab all our women. I won’t let you. And even if you knock me down like you did Guinea-hen, my uncle will take care of you.”

This time Sarah rolled her eyes. “Adrian, Neville is not going to fight with this man. Olivia will not allow it.”